Lessons in Living
by ramblelite
Summary: Reid finally gets the chance to lead a case, but it may hit a bit too close to home. With only a few weeks gone since the loss of his savior, Tobias Hankel, and the gain of a cripplingly cunning new enemy, an IQ of 187 will only go so far when it comes to the things that haunt you.
1. From the Top (to the Bottom)

**A/N: Welcome, one and all. I've loved Criminal Minds for a long time, and I've wanted to do a fic for this show since forever and a half, but never had the plot bunny to do it with. Well, you all know me. And you all know what I love. This story is going to be SO MUCH FUN, the plot will unravel within the next two chapters or so, and it'll be pretty immediately obvious this is going to be way different from my other stories. A lot more case-based, but still my classic style, if you will. It'll be a fun one, thank you for joining me for the ride. **

CHAPTER 1

Dr. Spencer Reid had just about had it. The entire team was seated around the conference table, Reid's obvious pain and desperation in plain view, and instead of helping him, instead of saving him from this; this…affliction, all they could do was yammer on about the latest scandal in the White House. Done for the day, the team was losing interest in all things FBI and profiling, and was completely ready to just let go of the mutilated bodies and completely fucked-up minds for a while to do exactly what Hotch always encouraged them to do: go home and live their lives.

Don't ever forget to be human.

Spencer knew: that was most certainly what was happening to him. He knew it because he knew what his life had become. While Prentiss went on with her stoic self, reading Vonnegut and lying about her age (her only true consideration in the realm of vanity); while Morgan spent all night out flirting and (presumably) fucking; while Garcia occupied all of her free time further strengthening her mind with Tetris and trivia games…. Reid found himself at home, time and time again, the exact same way: collapsed to the floor in the corner of the bathroom, trembling hands pushing the needle through his skin. His attentive and observant eyes would begin to roll back, and then drift shut as all the nerves in his finely-tuned brain would circuit, fizzling out. Spencer would lose complete control of his body and mind, no longer responsible for the burden of his genius. And his past.

High.

It was the first thing he did every morning, the last thing he did every night. And as often as he could in between. Get there, to that beautiful place Tobias had shown him only several weeks back, but that he had found himself longing to return to every moment since then; the desire, the craving, always stronger than the time before.

The sudden silence surrounding him brought Spencer back to the moment. The entire team stared. He cleared his throat. "Did I miss something?"

Morgan raised his eyebrows. "Just asked if you needed a ride home." The remainder of the team looked down, away, the ceiling… all around, as long as it wasn't Spencer's eyes. They knew. He knew they knew. The sinking feeling in his stomach confirmed for him, as he awkwardly threaded his fingers together in an attempt to ease the trembling warning him, telling him to get his ass back to the apartment so he could medicate. A quick nod was given in response. He needed to get home as quickly as possible. He needed the drug.

"That would be much appreciated. Thanks." Morgan gave him a curt nod, before they all simultaneously pushed themselves up and went on their ways. Off to do the things in life they chose to partake in with their free time, when they weren't thwarting sick-minded criminals. Certainly not highly illegal – and most likely lethal – drugs.

The drive home was quiet, save one brief exchange.

"You okay, man?"

Reid nodded.

Once inside, after muttering a quiet thanks, he sank down onto the sofa, scrubbing his hands over his face, wincing as he felt the growing moisture around his hairline and shrugged off his cardigan to relieve some of the heat... and ease the process of rolling up his sleeve. His absolute detest for this – for what he'd become, for what the drug did to his mind, for how fiercely dependent he'd found himself – couldn't stop him from reaching under the upholstery for the drugs taped to the wooden underside of the living room centerpiece. Trembling hands prepared the gear, and by the time he could hear the knock at the door, a thumb had already depressed the plunger. Answering the door just wasn't an option when he was nodding off, sinking into the sofa as his head dropped back. Soaring through his escape from his own nightmarish reality. Stoned.

Morgan knew Reid was in there. He knew, because he had just dropped him off. So when he knocked to remind Reid they had to be in an hour early in the morning, and heard nothing, a deep sinking feeling crept into Morgan's bones.

"Reid. Reid, man, open the door."

Nothing.

Morgan sighed. The last thing he wanted was to push the kid; Reid had been through enough, what with being taken hostage by Tobias Hankel. He knew there was torture involved, both psychological and physical. He knew there were drugs. He didn't know much beyond that, though. Reid wouldn't talk. Not to anyone. He was there physically, but inside, he was gone. Isolated.

The kid wasn't much of a social genius anyway, despite his sky-high IQ, but this was different. There was most definitely something OFF about the kid. He just couldn't place what. Sad, really, considering his profession.

Leaving it at that wasn't easy. The investigator in Morgan wanted to dig, to pry, to find out what was troubling the kid so severely: what was making him late to work so often, what was causing the withdrawn isolation, why he locked himself in the bathroom for 30 minutes at a time (just not feeling well, Reid would swear over and over). Why his hands shook… Why he had lost so much weight, even for his thin frame… As Morgan checked off everything that had seemed off over the last few weeks, the pieces connected. Finally.

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING

"I'm sorry, I'm really sorry."

"Reid, you were supposed to be here two hours ago."

"We tried to call you."

"I know, I'm- I'm really sorry…" Reid barely managed to sputter, out of breath as he rushed to settle into his chair and help the team. A quick swipe of his hand over his brow, a straightening of the purple tie over his grey button down and lighter grey cardigan, and a slight shuffling of his files, and he was ready to go. "What did I miss?"

Morgan didn't say a word. He just studied the kid. Looking for his proof. He cleared his throat. "Knocked on your door last night to remind you. No answer."

"I wasn't home."

"I had just dropped you off."

Reid paused. A brief glance down, studying the table, and he remembered. "Right. I just… I don't know. I didn't hear you. I'm sorry."

Hotch quirked an eyebrow at this, then zeroed in on Reid. "Spencer. I need you to be your absolute best for this one. We've been pulled in after a total of 5 deaths already."

Prentiss glanced up at this. "Remind us why we didn't find out about this until now?"

"They're suicides…" Reid muttered, looking over the case file. "Overdoses."

"Maybe. Or maybe they're murders. That's what we need to find out," Hotch offered.

Prentiss glanced up. "What changed? Why are they suddenly considering the idea that these may be murders?"

"They all happened the same day. The exact same way."

JJ shifted in her chair. "It couldn't have been a suicide cult?"

Reid kept his eyes locked on the files, beginning slowly, then letting his voice get a bit more hurried as he rattled off his knowledge. "No, it...it doesn't seem that way. Statistically, suicide cults are much larger groups. They also tend to leave indication of whatever message they're trying to send by performing the act. The blatant absence of both those signs suggests that's not what's going on here."

"Reid?" The youngest member glanced up at hearing Hotch's voice. "Can we speak in my office for a minute?" Reid blinked.

"Sure."

Once out of earshot, the interrogation that Reid just knew, with a sinking feeling in his heart, was coming, began. "Reid, I think there's something we need to talk about."

A slight shift of his weight gave him away, he knew, mentally swearing at his own stupidity. Hotch was a profiler, damnit. "What do we need to talk about?"

There were a few things it could have been. He could have asked him why he seemed so off. To reprimand him for being late this morning. To say he knew, to say he had noticed the marks on the inside of Reid's elbow, he could _sense _the drugs pulsing through Reid's being and was ready to ship him off to a rehab, a place where Reid couldn't get his last thread of hope, his only form of relief and release. To tell him he was fired, banished from the only thing that ever made Reid feel like his genius was a tool of usefulness, and not just a burden, getting in the way of living his life.

Hotch could have said any of those things, and Reid wouldn't have been surprised.

What Hotch did end up saying... well. That surprised Reid.

"You're my man for this job. I want you to take the lead on this one. Do you think you can do that?"

Reid swallowed. Ready for this kind of responsibility, he was not. Especially with his... condition. But he needed to do this. He needed to gain back his reputation. He needed to convince everyone he was okay. He could swear up and down, but he could see it. Them losing their faith in him, and all it did was necessitate a stronger dose of Dilaudid each night, morning, and moments in between, just to forget how much he was letting them down.

"I can do that. Thank you, for the opportunity, Hotch."

Hotch slapped the young kid on the back. "Of course, Reid. I have faith in you."


	2. Up in the Air

**A/N: Howdy, partners. Chapter two here. As soon as they're off the plane, all will be revealed about this case, and trust me, it's killer. (Ha. So punny.) Anywho, as my first Criminal Minds fic, I'm having fun writing with new characters, but if anyone with a little more Criminal Minds experience would be interested in reading drafts of these before they go up and letting me know what they think, just send a message! Love to all. **

CHAPTER 2

"What's going on?" JJ wondered, leaning in and following the path of the gaze of Morgan's narrowed eyes. Together, they watched Reid exit the small stall, stumbling slightly as a faint jolt rocked the jet. He moved slowly; sluggish, tired, and nearly collapsed into his seat, immediately curling up, holding himself tight, and squeezing his eyes shut, letting out a deep, shaking breath. Morgan couldn't help the fear that filled his lungs as he took a sharp breath of his own. He felt it sink in, float a bit, then dart through every vein in his body, giving him a slight chill. He knew what was going on. Reid was high.

He cleared his throat, still staring at the young agent, before leaning in to JJ slightly. "Something's wrong with him." A slight shake of his head started his next sentence off. "I don't think he should be taking primary responsibility for this case, not in his condition."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know yet. Something's... off."

JJ's immediate shame was evident, and she couldn't help but keep her eyes cast down. If there was something wrong with Reid, she didn't want to have to see him suffer, knowing it was her fault. She left him alone. He pushed for them to split up, and she let it happen. He was just a kid. He didn't know better. He should have, but he didn't. JJ knew better. She couldn't redeem herself from this one. Unforgivable. "Tell Hotch what you think."

Morgan would, he really would, but if there's a chance, even the slightest chance, that this truly is what Morgan thinks it is, Reid's career would be over. He'd lose his job, lose his friends, lose his faith in himself, and would probably end up deeper than he had ever been before.

If he wasn't already.

When Reid later shifted awake with an hour to Denver, and he had to put considerable effort into heaving his exhausted body up into a sitting position. The wince and labored groan, yet another hint that something was very, very wrong with the young man, beckoned Morgan to come. To help. With the remainder of the team oblivious - though Morgan still didn't understand how they even could be - and JJ sound asleep, he cautiously approached, kneeling at Reid's side. "Hey. Hey, man. You okay?" Reid, still struggling to sit up, felt his elbow slip on the armrest and had to reach out to keep from slipping back down. A strong arm caught his own. "Whoa. Easy. Reid, look at me, man. Are you okay?" The last thing Reid wanted was for anyone to see him come down from this awful, gripping substance, but after a few brief moments of hesitation, finally brought his eyes up to meet Morgan's. His chin remained tilted down.

"I'm fine."

Morgan took a moment, just studying his friend and coworker. Searching him. He had the clues, he just needed the confirmation. "Reid, don't lie to me. You're smarter than that." Reid nodded once, looking down, and Morgan had to close his eyes for a moment to regroup when he saw Reid's hands shaking intensely. "You're still using them, huh. Those drugs, that Tobias was giving you."

He couldn't help it: a small, unintelligible murmur escaped Reid's dry lips. He looked away, then tried again. "I...I'm fine."

"That's not what I asked you."

Reid bit down on his lower lip, so hard Morgan was scared it would bleed, then searched the ceiling. He didn't even want to see Morgan out of the corners of his eyes. "How... How did you find out?"

"It wasn't hard, Reid." Hesitation. "Can you look at me?" Reid kept his eyes down, shaking his head. The shame was wounding him far too deep to face his friend at the current moment.

"Does anyone else know?"

"No, buddy."

"Please don't tell them, I'll-"

"Lose your job. I know. I won't." Hesitation. "Is this... Are you having fun, doing this?"

Reid had to look away, and a small, strangled noise - something Morgan couldn't identify - fell from his throat. "No."

"So let me help you. You can kick this, I know you can." Reid's only response was to glance out the window, and Morgan's heart sunk a little deeper in his chest. "Will you? Let me help?"

"I can't."

"Reid, don't bullshit me-"

"No! You don't understand. I can't quit right now. I need to lead this operation, I can't let Hotch- _I mean, _I can't, I can't let everyone down, and if I try to quit now, I'll be far too sick to even come in, let alone focus on identifying and apprehending this unsub."

Morgan was so caught up with the idea that Reid needed help _right now_ that he didn't even entertain what Reid was saying. Unfortunately, he was probably right. Reid knew he was right. He was so, so far gone, he needed help now just to keep his head above the water. But he couldn't let them down. Not again. "Rehab. We can find-"

"A reason for me to lose my job?"

Morgan looked down. Reid was right. "Reid, man... This is going to be a hard question for you to answer, but wouldn't it be okay to lose your job, if it meant saving your life?"

It seemed Reid had already entertained this question, because his answer was immediate. "If I can kick this and save my own life, and lose my job in the process, there won't be anything for me to live for."

The sincerity and honesty in Reid's voice shook Morgan's soul. He meant what he was saying. "Reid..." A shake of his head changed his direction. "Spencer-"

"I'm 25, Morgan. I lose this now... I'll be living the rest of my life without the one thing I've aspired to my whole life. And sober."

"Is that last part so bad?"

"How am I supposed to survive without the only thing I've ever cared about?"

"The drugs?"

"The job."

"And the drugs will help you deal with that loss."

Reid looked away. "You don't know what they do to you. You don't know how they feel. How they take you and make you theirs."

"I know if you lose your job for this, only to continue to use...well, that's just stupid. And you're not stupid, Genius."

Reid had to smirk at his nickname, and met Morgan's eyes again. The fear that swam through him could not be quelled by anything Morgan said, even if the words made him smile. "_I don't know what to do._ I don't know how to go about this. This... this never happens to me."

"You're not thinking rationally, Reid, you're high."

Reid scoffs. "Yeah. Not anymore."

"It's only been two hours."

"That's its half life. Two to three hours and there's only half the active dose in your system." He looks away. "I didn't take much. I try not to, when I'm with the team. Just to keep the withdrawals away."

"You're physically addicted already," Morgan notes, the realization slamming him in the gut. Reid doesn't respond, just keeping his head down.

Hotch wanders by. "We're preparing to land." His eyes linger a bit too long on Reid, then to Morgan, who faintly shakes his head. _I'll handle it. _Hotch looks back to Reid. "You'll be okay?" He means okay, as in ready to land and get to work, but Reid knows, somewhere deep inside, it means more than that.

He nods. "Yeah. I will."


	3. Between Moments of Clarity, and Reality

**A/N: Chapter three is upon us. Oh, wait, here it is. :) Thanks for the words of encouragement, friends. Here comes the case!**

CHAPTER 3

"What's this?" The print-out set at his spot at the table frightened him. It started with "_Dear Druggie Scum,"_ which really didn't sound good to Reid, no matter how he tried to look at it.

"This," Gideon began, "is a note. Left by our unsub."

"So we can confirm these are murders and not suicides."

"Did you ever think they were?" Morgan asked, a slight undertone in his voice that only Reid could hear, telling him he should know better.

"No, but now we have confirmation."

"I think we had confirmation in the first place. They didn't call us until 5 deaths had already occurred, but they all occurred the same day. So, technically... doesn't that mean they called us immediately?" Prentiss wondered aloud.

Hotch cleared his throat, demanding the room's attention. "Unfortunately, no. Five deaths had already occurred. That day."

"This isn't the first instance," Prentiss confirmed.

Hotch nodded. "There have been other deaths with...similarities... in recent report within this county. This is the first instance of multiple killings in one day."

"Five," Reid barely croaked in agreement.

"Apparently, this guy _doesn't know the meaning of mercy,_" JJ read aloud, and Reid scoffed.

"Obviously, he does; if he didn't, he wouldn't have known that using that word would illicit such a reaction in the first place."

Prentiss looked up. "Do we have reports and victimology on the previous deaths?"

Hotch nodded. "On their way here as we speak. PD had to pull them, they hadn't thought these were related."

It wasn't easy for Reid to zone out the combined super-voice of the team talking over each other, but he managed, and his eyes quickly scanned the page, at a rate of approximately 20,000 words per minute, or, as he deduced almost immediately, in a matter of 4 seconds over the span of the 97 words.

_Dear Druggie Scum,_

_Your ability to fail at all things in life baffles me. Years of watching, studying, and analyzing your tiny brains has only led me to further conclude that none of you will ever amount to anything. Or, I should say, have never amounted to anything, and now, never will, for I do not know the meaning of mercy, and will prove that to each and every one of you as I watch you suffer: buried alive in the very grave you have each dug yourselves. This is only round one. Let the games begin._

Morgan looked up. "Can we acknowledge that it's not written to us, but to the victims?"

"Morgan's right-" Prentiss began, but Garcia's disembodied voice emanating from the conference phone in the center of the table managed to cut her off.

"Obviously!" she declared. Prentiss stopped, smirked, and looked at the machine impatiently before she continued, as though to ask it: _Are you done?_

"As I was saying, he's right. It's written to the victims."

"We know this. Do we know where they were left?" Gideon muttered, appearing to be thinking about something else entirely.

"ERT report says this was found in only one of the victim's homes. Left on the fridge with a magnet," Hotch noted, scanning over his victimology reports again.

"Time of death and response time indicate all victims died in their respective homes. This was left in only one home, only one place of death." JJ said.

During all of this, Reid kept his hands folded in his lap, attempting to keep the shaking out of the sight of the rest of the team. His head had started to ache, his stomach had started to churn, and he knew it was only a matter of minutes before he could no longer lead this investigation due to sickness. This fact hurt more than anything; it wounded him deeply, to know that he could not continue this investigation at the moment, and take advantage of this incredible opportunity to move up and gain respect as the youngest agent of his status in the Bureau, because of the grip this persuasive, seductive substance had on him. He couldn't resist, and he knew it.

He cleared his throat.

"Nothing in family interviews suggests the victims knew each other, and nothing in their socio-economic profiles suggest that, either. As of now, we can deduce that the victims did _not _ know each other, and that the only trait for targeting was the fact that they were all drug addicts." His voice cracked as he finished. He winced.

"Do we think our unsub knew the victims?" JJ suggested. Reid shook his head.

"I would have to say no. There's one existing letter. While it is addressed to the victims, this single letter leads me to believe we were the ones meant to see it. I doubt the victim whose home it was left in was even alive when it was placed."

"Addressed to them, meant for us. That's gotta say something," Morgan noted, stretching his arms up above his head.

The slightly crackled voice from the box spoke. "I'll let you guys know as soon as we get the scan in to handwriting and linguistics. Anything else I can do for my royal overseers?"

Reid spoke up. "I'm betting we'll get more from linguistics than handwriting, we don't even have suspects to compare against."

Morgan shot Reid a sharp look, and Hotch cleared his throat, maintaining the omnipresent calm in his voice. "Handwriting can be compared against family members and close relationships."

"The family didn't do this. The victims don't even know each other-" Reid began, but Morgan cut him off.

"_Reid."_ Reid glanced up at Morgan's voice. "It could help."

The last thing that would be appropriate for the situation was to clear his throat, in case it was seen as condescending and melodramatic, but unfortunately, due to the churning in his stomach steadily growing stronger, it was an involuntary reaction. A deep, shaking breath started his final words to Garcia. "Just... Look at linguistics. The connection between the letter's address and the letter's intended reader suggests we'll find something key in the words this unsub used. Just look at it." When Reid looked up, he saw the entire team staring at him. He leaned in a bit closer to the conference phone, and his slightly quieter voice cracked. "Please."

It took Garcia a moment to shake Reid's harsh words from her heart, but she did, and stuttered slightly when she spoke. "Of- of course. I'll be in touch." Her last words were hurried, and he could almost feel how sharply she pushed the 'disconnect' button, like she had shoved the finger directly against his chest. He sank back into his chair. The team was still staring at him.

"I'm... I need to use the bathroom," was all he was able to mutter as he stood, holding his bag close to his chest as he rushed out of the conference room.

Prentiss blinked, Gideon shut his eyes, JJ stared at the chair where Reid was sitting mere seconds ago, but was now empty, and Morgan slowly pushed himself up, going to follow without a word. Only Hotch sat still, with no detectable reaction on his face.

After a moment, he had to clear his throat to get his team to snap out of it. "He'll be fine. Let's get back to work."

They did as he said, but clearly, no one believed him. After that display, Hotch could no longer say with certainty that he believed himself, either.

Morgan was as quiet as possible when he opened the door, but he blew his cover and took in a sharp breath as he took in the image of Reid, leaning against the wall next to the sink, drawing liquid from a vial into a syringe with focused eyes and shaking hands. A neat, pocket-filled leather wrap-up case was spread out on the counter, holding the remainder of Reid's precious gear.

Upon hearing Morgan come in, Reid dropped the syringe, nearly dropped the vial, and scrambled to catch it, to salvage it. He winced as the syringe clattered to the floor, and jumped slightly, as though he was scared of it. Though, clearly not scared enough not to push it into his own veins. Morgan started slowly.

"Reid."

Reid looked up again, his wide eyes now wet with tears that Morgan didn't want to admit were there, and his forehead damp with a sweat that Morgan hadn't noticed out in the conference room. He looked like he knew he was caught in the act, but more than that, Reid looked desperate. Strangled. And damn it all if the man didn't look scared as hell, absolutely terrified of what would happen if Morgan took his drugs away. "Please don't-"

The young agent couldn't finish telling Morgan not to take away his gear, because his voice cracked and broke off as soon as he saw Morgan make to move towards him, and he collapsed in on himself, sliding against the wall to the floor, his arms crossed against his chest, and his knees up to block them. To protect himself from the man who was here only to help him, to protect himself from being denied the drug. To protect himself from love, from hope, from the people who cared about him most. "Please," he muttered again, keeping his head down.

"Reid," Morgan began, swallowing the fear caught in his throat. "Man, just listen to me for a second. Stay with me." Reid nodded. "How long has it been since you took this?"

Reid took a sharp breath, his voice wavering. "Nineteen hours, thirty-eight minutes."

"Last dosed on the plane?" Reid nodded again. "Reid. Answer me something."

Reid looked up in acquiescence, and patiently waited for Morgan's question.

"What happened in there? Why do you need this right now?" Reid thought for a moment, and barely lifted his eyes up from his lashes, his head still down.

He went to answer, but before he could, the churning that had been growing in his stomach flipped. His eyes fluttered shut. "M'gonna be sick."

Morgan had jumped up as soon as he saw Reid sink a bit, and grabbed the bin from the corner of the room, shoving it into Reid's hands.

_So, _the older agent thought to himself. _That's why._


	4. Blood on My Hands

**A/N: Hey there, just saying a quick hello and thank you to the fantabulous readers, followers, and reviewers I've got here at Lessons in Living. You guys don't know how wonderful and encouraging it is to get this kind of response as a new member of this fandom. Love to all.**

CHAPTER 4

"You need to get clean, Reid."

Reid made sure to ignore Morgan's monotone plea. Morgan would have shown more emotion, he really would have... but he knew what would happen. He would cry. The sight of the kid desperately trying to get high, but unable to, because his damn hands wouldn't stop shaking... it was enough to have Morgan tearing up, certainly. Morgan couldn't let that happen. He wouldn't cry. Not in front of the kid, not now. Reid needed Morgan.

The young agent had begun to ramble.

"You know, I've gone without it before. For longer periods of time. This never happens, not so soon after I...you know..."

"Slam a healthy dose of heroin?" Morgan offered, and Reid winced.

"I'm not on heroin."

"Like what you're on is any better?"

Reid managed to groan as his head lolled back and sharply connected with the tiled wall behind him. He winced, clutching the garbage bin with shaking hands. Morgan raised his eyebrows, then carefully lifted the bin to empty and clean it, in case Reid needed it again. "It could just be food poisoning."

"Or maybe you're so physically dependent, you lose your lunch if you don't get your drugs." He didn't mean for it to sound condescending, but it certainly came out that way.

"Or maybe it was food poisoning."

"I'm betting it's the drugs."

Reid sighed, letting his eyes flutter shut as he recovered. When he tried to speak again, after a time, his voice cracked, and he squeezed his eyes shut tighter before trying again. "I'm sorry."

"For what."

"For getting myself into this."

Morgan stopped what he was doing, and glanced over at his Genius, who now suffered so severely. "This isn't your fault, Reid.

Reid looked away. How could it not be? Tobias gave him the drugs, he gave them to Reid to make it better, and that's exactly what it did. Reid had felt it, he felt the drug floating through him, and from the moment it first entered his veins, and his head had lolled back as he entered a beautiful world where his eidetic memory didn't have to constantly recall, and his 20,000 word-per-minute reading rate didn't need to comprehend anything and everything... that beautiful world where he just wasn't constantly _thinking..._ well, from that moment on, if he knew anything at all, he knew this: he was hooked.

Morgan saw Reid deep in thought. He could guess what Reid was saying inside his own mind. _Failure._

"You're addicted. You're sick. That is not your fault. That does not mean you've failed."

Reid made sure to interject as soon as Morgan had finished. "No, I'm not, and yes, it is, and yes, it does."

"You think?"

Reid looked away again. "No." He paused. "And yes. And yes."

Morgan sighed, setting the freshly-washed bin by Reid's feet and washing his own hands. He didn't have anything to say to that. He wasn't sure he even understood it.

After some time, the desperate addict within Reid, as much as he would deny this creature even existed, impatiently knocked on Reid's skull, reminding him he still hadn't done what he came in here to do. Reid cleared his throat to get Morgan's attention.

"You should go. I'll be fine." It got Morgan's attention, alright, but it hadn't been what Reid really wanted to say.

_Yes, I'm addicted. God, I'm so addicted._

_Please, Morgan, don't go. Don't let me do this anymore._

_I want to stop. Stop me, please. Save me._

He didn't say any of those things, no matter how desperately he wanted to. Because he couldn't. The drug and its all-encompassing control wouldn't let him.

Morgan seemed to know that. "So you can use? No way."

An immediate sharp pound of a frustrated fist against the floor made Morgan jump, and when he looked over, what he saw in Reid's eyes terrified him. The young man was angry. He was upset, frustrated, withdrawing pretty badly, and looked ready to do whatever he had to do to get his next fix, no matter what was in his way. Most of all, though, it looked like Reid could have, and would have, killed Morgan in that moment, if he wasn't granted access to the one thing he needed more than anything else in this world. His drugs. "_Go, _Morgan."

Morgan studied Reid for a moment, then sighed, kneeling down next to the trembling young man, whose jaw was set in anger as he studied the floor. "You need this right now, huh." Reid kept his head down. He didn't answer. Morgan looked down, lacing his fingers together. "Alright. Do what you gotta do, but I'm not going anywhere. Just to make sure you're safe."

As soon as those words were out, Reid was scrambling towards the sink basin for his gear. As soon as he realized, however, just what he was doing, he stopped, and looked to Morgan. "I can't do this in front of you."

"I'm not going to rat you out, Reid. I just want to be here for you."

Spencer studied the elder agent for a moment, narrowing his eyes, searching for an ulterior motive, but finding none. "Really."

"Really."

Spencer searched him for a few moments longer, then slowly settled back against the wall, clutching his gear close to his chest. He then, carefully, carefully, extracted a new syringe from the case, uncapped it, and opened up a tiny vial, the one he had previously been filling now wasted.

A shaking hand brought sterile syringe to skin, and he had to look up at Morgan again before he pierced it, as though for permission. Morgan nodded.

Reid slid the needle through the skin and into a vein, hissing at the pinch.

He depressed the plunger.

A soft moan fell from his lips, and he settled back against the wall as he slid a bit lower where he sat. He glanced up at Morgan, as his vision began to dance and cross in front of him. All he caught, before everything blurred together, was Morgan closing his eyes in what looked like remorse.

Reid immediately regretted what he had done.

Morgan rocked back onto his ankles and stood up, carefully hooking an arm under Reid's elbow and dragging his now-barely conscious body towards the handicapped stall. He couldn't have someone walking in and seeing Reid this way. He hated it, too. Hated seeing Reid destroy himself like this. Hated seeing how dependent the young genius had become on the drug. Hated knowing he had something to do with it, by not taking better care of Reid. By not seeing this sooner. If there was blood, it would have been on Morgan's hands.

As soon as he got the kid, stoned out of his mind, settled against the wall, he took great care to wrap up the gear in the little leather case, and deposited the needle in the sharps container hooked to the wall of the bathroom, clearly intended for diabetics.

He went back to look at Reid. What he saw made his breath catch in his throat and his fists clench in incomprehensible rage and sickened sadness. The young man's head had flopped forward, and he was slowly slouching over, getting ready to fall to the side at any second. He kept trying to lift his head, but to no avail, letting it drop forward again and again, nodding off. The worst part, though... the worst part of all of this, were the two words that Reid barely managed to mumble in his slurred voice, over and over again.

"Thank you... th...thank..you...th...you..."

Morgan shut his eyes, and sat down next to the broken young man, gathering Reid's hand in both of his own, and just sitting by him, hopefully doing at least a little to help the kid through this.

A knock at the bathroom door caused Morgan to jump, and he glanced over when he saw Reid faintly jolt in unconscious reflex as well, then sink a bit lower again, his head nodding forward as his body prepared to completely sink to the floor. Morgan quickly pushed him up, and got him leaning against the toilet. Not the most lovely place, but he hadn't any other option.

"Yeah?" Morgan called. He heard footsteps, then saw shoes, they looked like Hotch's, from under the stall door.

"Morgan? Reid? Is everything okay?"

Reid attempted to speak in his barely-conscious stoned daze, his failed attempts at words slipping together. "Mm...kay. Pr'mise.."

The shoes stopped. "What was that?"

Morgan jabbed an elbow into Reid's side, who sputtered, then haphazardly threw his body over the toilet again, this time only dry heaving.

"Kid's sick. Food poisoning."

Hotch had to raise his eyebrows at this, then sighed. "Is he...will he be well enough to work, once he's...recovered?"

Morgan studied Reid, then went to open the stall door, quickly shutting it behind him and leaning against it. "I don't think so."

He winced, as the sound of Reid dry-heaving began again. Hotch cautiously glanced at the closed stall, toward the noise. "We can get him back to the hotel."

"I'll take care of him."

Hotch studied Morgan for a moment, searching his agent's eyes, then sighed, nodding and crossing his arms. "Do that. Thank you." He glanced past Morgan, to the stall again. "How are you doing in there, Reid?"

A rough, weak, "Mmhm" was all Hotch got in response.

The stare that Hotch provided, boring into Morgan's soul, made his insides twist as he realized what he was being silently told. Hotch knew.


	5. Manipulated Living

**A/N: This is more Reid-centric, but I'm quite fond of the writing in this chapter. Next chapter will be a lot more case-based, but have no fear. Just cos Reid's off this one, doesn't mean he stops working. ;) Y'all know Reid better than that. Love to all.**

CHAPTER 5

Reid came to in a strange place, somewhere he didn't recognize, and by this fact alone, he was able to deduce that he had never been there before. He would have remembered. Especially - he noted with an icy sadness that quickly grew in his heart - as he realized this room would be a wonderful environment for detox and recovery. The room wore a simple, minimalist quality; the bathroom door located right next to the bed. It was perfect, absolutely perfect, for the detox he knew he would have to eventually put himself through, but didn't have the strength for just yet.

The shock of the high left his body in shuddering waves. A hand reached his temple. He rubbed his fingers against the skin. It did not relieve the ache. He rose from his previous resting place: crouched in the corner of the room with his arms thrown over his head to protect himself from an invisible offender, and his head buried against his knees, so he didn't need to see the sight of his destroyed, drug-addicted life.

He moved to sit at the edge of the bed, taking in the ferocious tremble that ran from his syringe-scarred forearms to his fingertips, and back again.

"Reid?" The voice calling his name surprised him, and he jumped. He had thought he was alone. Morgan appeared, looking sad, frustrated, and most of all, exhausted, as he moved from his casual lean against the arch of the doorway, to join Reid, sitting next to him on the bed. He removed his hands from his pockets, looking the kid over.

Morgan didn't deserve to look so tired. Reid looked at the clock and did the math; he had dosed, gotten high, passed out, and stayed that way for 6 hours. Morgan must have been there the whole time, taking care of him.

"Morgan, I-"

"Don't."

"I'm sorry," Reid finished. He needed Morgan to hear this. "What you did, you... you didn't have to do that. And it meant a lot to me that you did, but I can't let you take this heat for me. Someone will find out, and-"

"Hotch knows." Reid blinked. Once. Twice. Was he still high? Was this real? He could have been hearing things. Yes, that was it. It had to have been.

When he next spoke, his voice held a considerably softer tone.

"I...Sorry, what?"

"He came in to check on you. He asked to see you. I tried to hide the track marks, but he came right in, kid. I'm sorry."

Reid's eyes scanned the floor. When his heart broke in two, he didn't have any other option but to collapse in on himself, wrapping his arms around his chest and groaning softly.

"Reid, man-"

"You... Did he say anything?"

Morgan's voice was even, but the concentration in his eyes made it obvious it was taking a lot of self-control to maintain it.

"He tried, but... you weren't here. You were so far gone, man, and you didn't come back, not for a while. He tried to wait, but he had to get back to work..."

"What did he say to you?"

Morgan hesitated.

"Reid, you can't... just... when I tell you this, look at it as an opportunity, to-"

"What did he say?"

Morgan sighed. "You're on suspension. At least two weeks. Longer, if you can't pass a drug test. You'll have to take an alcohol and drug course administered by the Bureau before you come back."

As Reid listened to this, his observant eyes and recently sobered mind took inventory of the room. Things _appeared _normal, for the most part, but as he scanned the space, he began to pick up on the small details. Torn pieces of paper littered the floor. A notebook sat on the desk in the corner, along with a pen, and a used, uncapped needle. This frustrated him. He always made sure to immediately, and safely dispose of his hypodermic needles. He must have been really, _really_ high.

The last thing he noticed was his belt, coiled tight, sitting atop the dresser.

He looked back to Morgan, a vacancy in both his eyes and his voice, that just wasn't there before. "Suspended?"

Morgan dropped a heavy hand on Reid's shoulder, the weight of his sadness for the kid landing on him with it. "I'm sorry, man."

Reid looked down, nodding. "Suspended," he repeated. Morgan had nothing to say, he just kept his head down. His heart broke for the kid, watching him fall and flail and drown and come closer and closer to completely dead inside, every time he pumped himself full of Dilaudid. "You can go," Reid said.

"You're gonna use."

Reid didn't skip a beat. "Yes. I am."

Morgan couldn't help but blink at Reid's straightforward attitude about the vile, disgusting, and _so _dangerous act that he so willingly performed, but when his cell rang to let him know the team needed him back at the station, he had to let it go. Reid had already risen from the bed, and with strained, aching movements, he rolled up a sleeve as he wandered towards his gear.

"Stay safe, okay, man? Promise me."

Reid didn't promise him anything. He couldn't. Not with the edge of his belt between his teeth as he pulled it tight and pushed the needle through his skin.

Once Morgan was gone, Reid found himself pacing the room, struggling to stay on his feet. He stumbled around, sometimes reaching out to hang onto things, just to keep himself standing.

He mumbled quietly to himself, lost in the pulsating waves of his high, wrapping his arms tightly around his chest and scratching softly at his own skin.

"S-stop...this's...I gotta...I just...gotta...need...stop..." The words barely made it from his fucked-up brain, to his vocal cords, and by the time they passed through his lips and made it into the air, they were haphazard and slurred beyond comprehension. He stopped, groaning in his physical and mental anguish as he sunk down against the wall, stretching his arm out and studying the track marks that covered his once-flawless skin, mumbling some more.

"Just...just make it go 'way." The sight of his scarred arm became too much to bear, and he buried his face against his knees, throwing one arm above his head in protection, and letting the other drop to the floor in a frustrated fist.

His final words before the drug took its complete hold over him, stealing his consciousness, his reason, and most of all, his sanity, were almost too quiet to be heard by the empty room.

He barely whispered the soft plea for respite. "Someone help me."


	6. Pesticide

CHAPTER 6

"Where's Spence?" Jj offered up the question no one else had the courage to ask, as they settled in their spaces around the table.

"He's not feeling well." Hotch's words provided little in the way of comfort or resolve for the time, but he left it at that.

That got Gideon wondering. He really didn't understand why Reid had suddenly starting shut him out. Ever since the hostage incident in Georgia, the boy was different. Distant. And somewhere deep inside the seasoned agent, it stung. Even through the thick skin he had developed over his years at the BAU, having the kid he had grown to know as his most trusted student suddenly decide he didn't need Gideon anymore... yes. It really, really stung, but there was nothing to be done about it. If the kid needed space, he needed space.

"Did he say what was wrong?" Gideon asked.

"He's sick," was all Morgan could say. Gideon immediately noticed that beneath the quick and clipped tone, Morgan's voice was tinged with pain.

And as Gideon heard these words, it suddenly dawned on him; this wasn't a common cold. Morgan and Hotch knew something the rest of the team didn't: something was very, very wrong with their Boy Genius.

The conference phone ringing snapped them all out of their pondering, and Garcia's disembodied voice was welcomed.

"Nothing from handwriting, but Reid was right: we've got some clues from linguistics." Her usual chipper tone penetrated the sad silence that had fallen like a fog over the conference room, as the team lamented the absence of SSA Dr. Spencer Reid. She stopped, and then her voice resumed when no one replied. "Is... is he there?"

Morgan's voice broke through to inform her of the situation with an eery calm to his voice, which didn't go unnoticed by Gideon. Morgan knew something. "He's not here, Baby Girl. He's sick."

"Oh, no!" Her genuine concern was tangible, as her voice filled the room once again. "Is he alright?"

Hotch cut in at this. "He'll be fine. Send us the report form linguistics. And we have a few reports to send back, similar murders over the last month pulled by PD. So far, no common factor, other than drugs, in our five victims. See if we can find anything to link back to any of these older cases. Run the basics and get back to me."

"Sure, boss."

"That's all for now."

"Gotcha."

Morgan leaned in to the phone as an afterthought, adding to Hotch's final words. "Call me, Baby Girl."

"Of course, Sugar."

After they hung up, Hotch studied Morgan. "What was that?"

Morgan shrugged. "She likes to talk dirty to me when you guys aren't looking."

Prentiss scoffed, trying to contain laughter, and JJ shut her eyes in embarrassment. Hotch just raised an eyebrow.

Later that night, Morgan paced his hotel room, his hands folded behind his head and his eyes scanning the ceiling as he thought. About Reid, about what to do; to heal him, to help him. How he could fix this awful, awful situation. His phone rang, pulling him back to the present.

"Yeah."

"Miss me, Lover Boy?"

Morgan chuckled. "Every second. How you doing?"

Garcia sighed. "I've... I've been better, Derek. This case has my stomach in knots. I'm not finding anything."

"You'll make it work."

"I hope so." She hesitated. "What's...what's wrong with Reid? He's sick?"

Morgan sighed. "Yeah. He's sick."

"With what?"

He debated telling her, until he remembered himself, and that it was not his place. "Just... under the weather."

"Please don't lie to me, Derek."

Another brief moment of hesitation. "He's struggling. After Georgia. That's all. He'll come back to us soon enough."

"He better."

"He will. Better than ever."

He could hear her smile over the phone.

"You bring my Baby Genius back in one piece, you hear?"

Morgan smiled in return. "That's a promise."

"A wink for you. Thanks, Handsome."

"Of course, Sweet Lady of Mine."

Together, they smiled. Morgan could only hope some of his positive energy would reach Reid.

It didn't.

If Morgan was in the room with Reid at that very moment, he would have seen the small, frail figure curled up in the empty bathtub, fully clothed, with a needle still stuck in his arm. His eyes fluttered, lingering between sleep and awake, lost between reality and unconsciousness... and he had lost control of most of his body. His fingers twitched, his lips were barely parted, and a soft, weak moan fell from them every few minutes.

He no longer needed the help he had previously been so desperately begging for, echoing pleas to an empty room: everything was fine now. He was fine. He felt good. The drugs did their job, and everything was perfect.

Until he barely registered the knock on the door.

_"Reid? Reid, it's Gideon."_

Silence. Reid let his eyes drift shut. Maybe if he closed his eyes, everything would go away.

_"Reid. Open the door, I just want to talk."_

He winced as the pounding got louder. It hurt his ears. He settled against the porcelain tub again, as this fractured thought hit him: he should just be left alone. He was useless.

_"I am going to enter by force if you give me an audible reason not to in the next 10 seconds."_

Reid didn't give him audible reason not to enter by force. He jumped softly in reflex when the door slammed open. He jumped again when he heard the bathroom door creak open. He drifted off before the shower curtain was pulled open. By the time Gideon could take in the image of a stoned Reid, curled up in the tub with a needle dangling from his arm, the young man was too far away to hear him.

"Oh, Jesus. Oh, no. No, no, no."

Gideon pulled Reid from the tub, and the horrifying reality of how light the kid was hit him like a freight train. The kid was far too easy to lift.

"Reid. Reid, wake up."

"Mmmmhh."

"Reid. Come on, kid, open your eyes."

Gideon carefully extracted the needle from Reid's arm, taking great care to dispose of it safely, and turned his attention back to the suffering young agent.

"Jesus, what did you do?"

He smacked the kids cheeks lightly, rubbing his knuckles against Reid's sternum, and looking away as Reid sputtered, and came to.

He coughed, and moaned, and coughed again. Gideon sat back, studying the kid in his obvious misery for a moment, then standing to grab him a glass of water.

The glass of water was a kind enough offering, but Reid could barely lift his hand to accept it, he was so stoned. Gideon saw this, and sighed, setting the water down and watching Reid flail for the cup again, completely unaware that the thing was no longer even within his reach.

Gideon remembered his words to Reid, during the hostage incident.

_You're stronger than he is. He cannot break you._

The realization that followed made Gideon's heart ache with a hollowness that seemed to appear out of nowhere.

Reid had broken.

"What happened to you?" Gideon wondered aloud.

Morgan's voice made Gideon jump. "He's killing something inside of him. Something he hates."

The elder agent turned. "You knew about this." His anger quickly grew. "You knew about this, and you didn't say anything."

"Hotch knew."

"Hotch doesn't know him the way I do, Hotch sees him as a machine."

"You know that's not true."

Gideon sighed, looking back to Reid, who's head had begun to loll forward, and he mumbled softly, words that may have been intelligible as they sloshed around Reid's brain, but came out as nothing more than sounds.

"Look at him. This... he's dying."

Morgan shoved his hands in his pockets. "I know."

"He needs to clean up."

Morgan nodded in agreement, and spoke once more. "I know."

"Are you helping him? Is Hotch?"

"Legally? There's nothing we can do."

"An intervention. That's what we can do."


	7. In Need of Saving

**A/N: Hey guys. Sorry it's been a bit sporadic. I just had a bit of oral surgery performed and I'm still in recovery, so it's been a little hard to stay on top of this, but I'm doing my best. I'm having so much fun with this story, though, and I hope you guys are all enjoying it, too.**

**Also, I understand there was an issue with posting today. I was a goof, I'm recovering from surgery and am on a bunch of pain meds and updated the wrong story. This is the real, legit Chapter 7 for Lessons in Living. Please enjoy. :)**

CHAPTER 7

Morgan looked around the table, surveying his team members waiting patiently for his words. The ones he came up with weren't his best.

"Thanks for coming... guys."

Prentiss nodded, JJ smiled at his choice of words, and Garcia raised an eyebrow. She had flown in the day previous, when Morgan called and told her it was important to the case that she be there.

She didn't believe him, but it was Morgan, and who was she to say no to that?

Of course, Morgan and Gideon were the only ones who didn't get the humor that the only people they had to call in were the women of the team.

Hotch still didn't know this was their plan.

"What's this about?" Prentiss asked. Hotch wasn't there, so it clearly _wasn't _about the case, like they had been told.

Morgan took a deep breath, then looked to Gideon, who stood up a little straighter.

"It's about Reid."

All three women took a deep, sharp breath as the mention of their 'sick' friend hit their hearts.

"He needs our help. And before we say anything further, you all need to know this is not his fault."

"Of course it's not his fault, you said he was sick, right?" JJ said, confused.

Morgan nodded. "He is sick. But not in the way you'd think."

Gideon continued. "This is not his fault, and we need to be very careful when we approach him about this."

The girls got it. Immediately. JJ's hand flew to her mouth, Prentiss folded her hands and looked down, and Garcia shook her head, studying the ceiling, willing the growing tears to fall back into her eyes.

"Reid... Reid has been abusing drugs. We think he may be physically addicted as well," Gideon began, but Morgan cut him off.

"He is physically addicted. That's why he's been so sick the past few months. He's been working very hard to stay sober at work."

A hitch in Garcia's breath let the team know her fight to keep the tears away was failing.

"What's he on?" Prentiss asked.

"Dilaudid."

"The drugs Hankel was giving him," Gideon commented. "He's tried to stop, but he can't. Not on his own. We need to help him."

They all nodded in agreement. Agreement to save their partner, their coworker, their friend. They were all prepared to do whatever it took to save Spencer Reid.

xxxxCMxxxxCMxxxxCMxxxx

LATER THAT EVENING:

Reid sat, hunched over his desk in his hotel room, scribbling notes furiously and flipping through the pages of his file. Even if he was on mandated medical leave (for his severe drug addiction, which even he could acknowledge would not help anything), he still needed to work this case. Hotch still needed him, after all, even if he no longer trusted Reid.

This wounded the young agent deeply. He didn't mean for this to happen. He took the drugs from Tobias, and swore he would only use them to stave off the withdrawals he knew would come. After that, he'd stop. He swore.

But he couldn't. He tried, God knows he tried, but he couldn't stop. He had to start buying, just to feel normal throughout the day, and it destroyed his soul to know what he had become.

Shaking his head, Reid hunkered down and got back to work, attempting to geographically profile the two separate incidents, and find connections that way. The most important thing was determining what linked each incident together. If the individual victims didn't matter much to the unsub, the fact that they were targeted in two separate incidents did.

On a roll, Reid wrote down that fact, but not without noticing the tremor that began to work its way through his fingers.

He squeezed his eyes shut, dropping his pencil. The pounding in his heart frightened him. He knew what he had to do.

The needles. The vials. The tourniquet. All set up on the shelf above the fireplace. He needed them all, now. Right this second.

A brief tingling panic settled like a lightning storm throughout Reid's head, then ran down his lungs, to his heart, and out to his limbs, finally fizzling out at the tips of his fingers. He scrubbed his hands over his face, then ran a hand through his hair, dampened with sweat as he shook with anxiety, and the crippling tendrils of withdrawal creeping up on him.

After studying the gear for a moment, he had to take some time to consider. He needed to get clean. He _needed _to. Morgan knew, Hotch knew, and now Gideon. The only reason he had pushed Gideon away in recent weeks was because he had to hide it; his affliction. His addiction. The addiction he had to hide from the man he respected most, for fear of letting him down.

Spencer was resolved. He had to do it; he had to take his drugs. He just had to, no matter what the people he cared most about, would think of him.

Just one more time. Just once more, just to help him focus on his work and ignore the withdrawals, and he'd kick it. He promised himself. He had to, for fear of spiraling further, descending into this world of overwhelming drugs and further overwhelming highs; crippling sadness and further crippling madness.

He reached for his tools.

After a skilled (which provided him more shame, than pride) assembly of the gear, he had the tourniquet tied and the needle laying close against his skin. A deep breath. He curled his hand into a tight fist to lift the vein. Another breath. He pierced the skin.

The rush was so immediate, it crashed over him like a wave; pushing out, and rushing back in again in small tides. His eyes lingered somewhere between open and closed, and he slouched severely where he sat.

He was a mess, caused by the rush of a Dilaudid-induced high that gripped him and forced him to obey, like the true prisoner he was.

Spencer nearly fell from the seat, but caught himself, and lowered himself down to the floor, curling up next to the desk and chair and trying to steady his breathing, which suddenly overwhelmed his lungs and provided hyperventilated doses of oxygen to the young man's brain.

He let his eyes drift shut. This was wrong. He couldn't work this way, either. Why didn't he get that? How could he let this happen again?

Why couldn't he stop himself?

Why? Why couldn't he just stop?

He asked himself these questions, and then he cried.

It seemed like hours, that he lay there, next to the work he had promised himself he would do, crying as he curled up tight in his drug-induced near-oblivion (but not quiet there yet). Something inside him was still awake. And that something hated himself for doing this, again, and again, and again.

He was pulled from the overpowering need to just sit and wallow in his self-loathing and misery when he heard a pounding at the door. Echoing voices that he couldn't identify. Angels, here to save him? Devils, here to push him down?

With great effort, he was able to pull himself up, and had to hang on to various pillars and ledges across the room to make his way to the door. The pounding got louder, even as he got closer, and he winced, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Stop. Please stop. M'coming."

The thought that it could have been his team didn't even cross his mind, until he cracked open the door, with great effort, to see them all standing there, fronted by Morgan.

"Hey kid. Can we come in?"

JJ swallowed upon seeing Spence. He was so very clearly high.

"What d'you want?"

"Just want to say hey, Genius."

Reid studied Morgan a bit longer, and then stepped back, pulling open the door as he quickly wiped the tears from his eyes. He let them in.

"Penelope."

She smiled at him. She knew he wasn't expecting her.

"Hi Spencer. How are you feeling?"

He ignored her, going further into the room and sinking down to the edge of the bed, scrubbing his hands over his face.

"You use recently?" Morgan asked, and through his unfocused eyes, Reid managed to shoot him a look. The others weren't supposed to know.

Until suddenly, it dawned on Reid, why they were all here, and why they all knew.

"S'this an intervention?"

Morgan looked down for a moment, then sighed, looking back up again and dropping a hand on Reid's shoulder.

"We just want to help you, buddy. When did you last use?"

Reid slowly shifted his gaze towards the clock with tired eyes. "Doesn't matter."

"You high?" Morgan asked, quieter this time. Reid laced his hands together and looked down, nodding once, wincing as it got away from him a little bit.

"Yeah."

"Is this not a good time for us to be here?"

"Is there ever a good time for an intervention?"

"I'd say as soon as possible, is a good time."

Reid nodded, looking down again. "I don't need this. Please go."

"Reid-"

"Get out."

Garcia looked up at this. She was clearly wounded by his words, even though they hadn't been spoken directly to her.

"Reid?" she asked. He didn't respond. "Please let us help you."

He rolled his sleeve down, cradling the arm he most often injected in. "i don't need your help. Go."

Prentiss leaned in to Morgan, whispering her thoughts. "Maybe we're approaching him the wrong way. We definitely shouldn't be doing this while he's under the influence."

Morgan nodded. "I didn't think he would be. Stupid of me, to think that."

"Is he...you know...often?"

Morgan looked over at her. "Most of the time."

She shut her eyes. It stung, to see Reid this way. The kid was such a genius, how could he possible not know better than to get involved in something like this?

Then she remembered what Morgan and Gideon reassured her. _This was not Reid's fault. _

"We should go," she said, still quiet. Morgan nodded, and motioned to the rest of the team, as Reid sat in the chair, slumped over with his head in his hands.

"I'll get us all together later. Let him take some time to sober up," Morgan said.

Gideon, who hadn't spoken much at all during this, studied Reid. "I'll stay with him. Make sure he doesn't use again or hurt himself further."

Morgan nodded. "Let us know how he is."

Gideon looked to Morgan, then back to Reid. "I will."

During all of this, Reid looked over his desk, the gear spread out. He noticed his hands shaking. He was still so high, but something inside of him, maybe the stress of everyone knowing, told him he needed to shoot up again. Immediately. He reached for the gear, but a soft hand fell over his. He looked up with unfocused eyes.

"JJ?"

Her voice was kind, gentle.

"Please don't do this anymore, Spence."

He looked down, the tears pricking at his eyes. "I can't."

She looked him over, kneeling down next to his chair, and looked over the papers he had spread over his desk. "Are these your notes on the case?"

He nodded.

"Can I take a look at them?"

He nodded.

She held is hand, keeping him away from the drugs, as she read over the notes, and for the first time in a long time, he felt safe.

He really felt safe.


	8. Safe and Sound

CHAPTER 8

Everyone knew Gideon was the best option when it came to who would stay with Reid until he sobered up.

What they didn't know was how difficult it was for Gideon to control himself in the heat of the situation.

"Sit up."

"Hm?"

"I said, sit up, Reid."

"Hm."

It was incredible, how easily agitated Gideon became as he stayed with Reid and watched him stumble through the remainder of his high. It wasn't anger, it wasn't spite... it was concern, pure and genuine, and for Gideon, that most often came out as agitation; but, to someone who was in another world, another state of mind... like Reid, for example, it was just painful judgement from the man he respected most.

He hated being seen this way, and he knew that that was what was happening, even in the depths of his soaring reprieve from madness.

What Reid didn't know, was how much Gideon was struggling with this as well. His quiet words of reprimand weren't meant to be critical, they were simply Gideon's father-like instinct, jumping in to protect the boy.

_Make eye-contact when you speak to others._

_Remember, conversations are not interrogations._

_You are an asset to this team, don't ever forget that._

These were the sorts of things Gideon had to remind Reid to keep him on track.

He never imagined he'd also be adding, _"For the love of God, Reid, get sober,"_ to that list. But here he was.

Babysitting his best student, and good friend: stoned out of his mind, because the kid simply had to be. Because he was addicted.

"Reid."

"Hm."

"Stop walking in circles." Gideon hesitated as Reid continued. "Just take a seat, kid, you're stressing me out."

"Why are you here?" Reid's words were sudden.

Gideon looked up, and saw that Reid had sunk to the edge of the bed, his shaking hands folded in his lap, and his haunted eyes appearing all too hollow.

"I'm here to watch you, kid. Make sure you're okay."

Reid looked away. When he spoke, it was too simple and matter-of-fact to be believed by someone as smart as Gideon. "I'm fine. You can go."

"You must think I'm a moron."

"I'd never think that of you."

Gideon looked up again, and felt Reid's honesty hit him like a punch to the gut. He then realized this: this stuff was like a truth serum for the kid.

He pushed himself away and up from the desk, and went to join Reid, sitting next to him.

"Reid."

"Hm."

"Can you tell me something?"

"F'course."

Gideon shut his eyes as he heard the words slip together. He had to hesitate before he spoke.

"How can you do this to yourself? You're smarter than that."

Reid swallowed, and looked away, his gaze finding the window. This question hit him hard, it actually brought his sober-factor up a notch or two. Especially when the words came from Gideon.

"I...I don't know." He squeezed his eyes shut. "It's like I don't have any other choice. This... this weight, that's on me... it doesn't go away." He shrugged. "This helps."

"This, meaning the drugs."

Reid's hand found the crook of his elbow where he injected, and he lightly touched the mangled skin, studying it. He just nodded once.

Gideon sighed, and stared out the window for a moment, then at the clock, noting that no matter how much time passed, Reid only seemed to be getting less and less lucid. "I'm gonna go, okay? I'm going to let you rest for a bit, and I'll be back in a little while, to check on you."

"You're taking it away," Reid realized.

Gideon smirked, letting a hand drop to the kid's shoulder. "You always too smart for your own good." He produced a vial from his pocket, and shook it once. "But not smart enough when you're on this stuff. This is the last one. Morgan already cleaned the place out when you were talking to JJ earlier."

Reid nodded, his eyes searching the floor. It stunned him, to see how easily he could speak about his addiction with these people, now that the secret was out. The reason hit him: he could speak so easily about it because it didn't change anything. They still loved, respected, and cared for Reid, and at the end of the day, would always be there for him.

Some tiny sliver of stupidity within Reid thought maybe, just maybe, they would have abandoned him. He was so wrong.

Once Gideon was gone, Reid curled up on the bed, staring out the rain-soaked window. And he thought. He thought about where the nearest place to get drugs in Denver might be.

While he pondered this, Gideon rejoined the team in the conference room back at PD. He nodded once to Morgan, who pulled him aside.

"How's he doing?"

Gideon sighed. "He didn't seem to be sobering up much. I'm just letting him rest. Everything is... you cleared it all out?"

"The girls and I did a full sweep." Gideon nodded, glancing sideways as he palmed the last vial over into Morgan's hand.

"Good. Get rid of this." Morgan nodded, and Gideon looked over at the round table, noting the girls gathered. "What are they looking at?"

Morgan shrugged, confiding in Gideon. "Reid's notes. He was really onto something with this case."

"What'd he find?"

Morgan hesitated. The last thing he wanted was to defend Reid's drug use, but the fact of the matter was, Reid's personal experience gave him an edge when it came to looking at this case. "Print examiners missed something, that Reid noticed. The prints on the syringes matched the victims, but weren't necessarily in positions that would be easy to self-administer."

"They were planted?"

"They were positioned. The unsub was there, coaxing and holding his victims' hands the whole way. Literally."

"Assisted suicide?"

"Can't be. Like Reid said before, we can rule out group or singular suicides."

"So what's this about? Why would these victims willingly administer these doses with the help of the unsub?"

"We're thinking coercion. Their life for something else," said Morgan.

"Something they'd be willing to die for."

"Exactly."

Gideon considered this. "Coercion." He nodded, then glanced over at the girls, pouring over the notes. "He's really onto something."

"He is."

Reid was. He really was. And after he woke from a nap and found himself fully sober, he continued to work. Of course, he had turned the hotel room upside down looking for his drugs first, only to remember the failed attempt at an intervention his coworkers had so haphazardly planned. They just got in his way.

He couldn't work like this. He couldn't work sober.

Of course, he said this to himself, without even considering what had happened the last time he had thought those thoughts: he had ended up curled on the floor, high as a kite and crying as he realized no matter how he was... sober and hating his life, or high and hating himself, he still couldn't get work done anymore. No matter what. No matter how he was.

He was ruined.

This just made it worse. Upon that realization, Reid crumpled. He fell to the floor, curling up much in the same way he had only a day prior, and cried, wrapping his arms around his knees and burying his face. The hitched breaths and sobs did nothing to ease his pain, but they made it easier to release the feelings. At least a little bit.

But they didn't do enough.

And he was out the door, in the rain-slicked streets of Denver looking for a connection.

When he found one, he didn't even think about how worried his teammates, his _friends,_ would be if they knew where he was: tucked in a corner between two buildings, ducked out of the rain with a needle in his arm. Again. But he felt safe and sound there. He felt safe and protected by the cloud that settled over him in his drugged-up haze. And he felt protected from the idea that his teammates might know...

Of course, they knew. They knew as soon as they knocked on his door later that night, only to find that he wasn't there.

And they knew. Immediately, they knew what he had done. And they knew they had to find him. To stop him, yet again, from destroying himself.

It was just a matter of whether or not they could find him in time.


	9. Swerve City

**A/N: Hey there! Recovery post-op is going well, and I'm a lot more on my game in terms of non-loopiness from pain meds, which I hope is evident in this chapter. This one is a serious set up for some very important events coming up, so stay tuned and listen close. :) Enjoy, enjoy.**

CHAPTER 9

They couldn't find him.

Or maybe he didn't want to be found. Either way, he was a ghost. He had gone underground, tossed into the dangerous underbelly of Denver's drug scene.

"Where was he last seen?" Hotch demanded.

"At the hotel." Morgan hesitated. "We tried to approach him."

"An intervention."

Morgan nodded, threading his hands behind his head. "He was too high to understand what we were trying to do for him." He hesitated, then shook his head. "It didn't work out too well."

Hotch folded his hands where he sat. "We'll get a search team out from local PD. Right now, we need to focus on the case. Two more deaths, this time independent of each other. They'll be harder to crack with nothing we know of linking them at this point."

"So, what, we're just gonna forget the fact that Reid is somewhere on the streets getting high off whatever he can find in a dirty needle? This… we can't let this happen to him, Hotch. We can't."

"Spencer is on mandated leave, Morgan. What he does with his time, is, unfortunately, not up to us at this point. Legally, he may do whatever he wants to do."

"But he _doesn't want this_, Hotch. I know he doesn't, because he's pleaded and begged me for help. We need to do something, we need to find him."

"I'm afraid that's not an option at the moment. When we're off the clock, you can do whatever you think would be best to find Reid and bring him back safe. From there, we can discuss what to do about his continued drug use. Until then, your attention needs to be on the case."

"You know you can't ask us to forget about him."

Hotch sighed, then lowered his voice, pressing his palms against the desk. "I'm not asking you to forget about him. I'm just as worried as you all are. But if these truly are the choices he's making for himself, then I think that says something about whether or not he wants to be found." He hesitated. "Unfortunately, it's not the top priority given to us by the PD that brought us out here. Right now, they want us focused on their case." It took him a moment, but after all of the nonsense he had just spewed, Hotch brought it all together in one sentence. "He's out there on his own accord. He wasn't taken. No signs of struggle." He paused. "We need to give him time. Chasing him will just make him run faster. He isn't looking to come back. Not right now."

But the reality was, Reid _was_ begging; silently pleading to be found; for he no longer was out in the world on his own accord, palming off whatever money he had left or could scrounge together for a vial of drug store heroin, or, occasionally, when he couldn't find his own personal drug of choice, the real thing, which necessitated a bit more preparation before administration.

He was no longer in that world, because after four days on his own, getting lost in this city, he had found himself out of money, out of drugs, and out of hope. Spencer was a slave to the drug, and the drug was telling him, if he didn't get a fix soon, there would be hell to pay.

"Kid. Can I help you?"

Spencer looked up from his prone position: seated upon a park bench with his knees together, one sleeve rolled up, his unfocused eyes - still coming down from the last remnants of the drugs in his system - working overtime just to pick up the sight in front of him: a man, somewhere in his thirties, with two belts slung over his hips and a ripped denim vest over a black long sleeve shirt, his only means for fighting off the cold. The man still had more than Spencer had.

"What?"

"You need something? You look like you're hurtin' pretty bad."

Spencer studied the man.

"What do you have?"

"Whatever you need, my friend."

Spencer nodded, then looked away. "I don't have any money."

"You can do me a favor. This first time."

"What… what sort of favor, do you need?" The logical man inside of Reid still existed, somewhere deep within, and something felt very wrong about the situation in front of him.

"Just some help with goods. You help me move some, I'll keep you in it."

"You want me to help you sell drugs."

"Hard to believe?"

"You don't even know my name."

The man shrugged. "Don't have to. You're a junkie. You wouldn't let any harm come to my goods. It'd get in the way of your fix."

"I'm not."

"Not what?"

"One of those." A junkie, Reid wanted to say, but knew it would just be foolish to pretend. Of course he was. Anyone could see that.

The man laughed. "Tell you what, kid. You make me laugh like that again, you may even be a permanent addition to my team. I like you. Name's Carter."

Spencer took a breath. "Thanks… Carter."

"What's your name, kid?"

He hesitated. "Tobias. It's… Tobias."

"Tobias. Good to make your acquaintance." Reid shoved his hands in his pockets, looking down. "Let's go get you taken care of, okay, kid?"

Reid winced at the nickname he was so used to being applied to him by the people he loved most. "Yeah. Thanks," was all he could say in response as they left together.

As the walked, Reid caught sight of himself in a reflective bus bench cover, and realized just how deeply the four straight days of nonstop drug use had destroyed him. He looked so… so thin. His eyes wide, and so wild, like those of a frightened deer. And his scraggly hair, it hung over his forehead. Reid pushed his sleeves up, to get a better look at his arms. He was running out of spots to inject on his preferred arm, he had begun to routinely shoot up the other. He couldn't even distinctly count the marks anymore. He just knew there were far too many; he knew he was beyond saving. Spencer Reid was gone. He didn't even recognize the man staring back at him.

"You coming?"

Reid hesitated, then followed. "Yeah." He hesitated again. "How… how did you get into this business?"

"Didn't have any other options." The way Carter spoke was so casual, so nonchalant, that it stunned Reid into momentary silence. Carter looked Reid over. "How did _you_ get into this business?"

"I don't sell."

"No, you buy."

Reid stopped, then looked Carter in the eyes. It took him a moment to speak the words, and they were so quiet, Carter had to strain to hear. "I didn't want this."

It was Carter's turn to be stunned. The pain in the kid's eyes hurt. He had never seen someone react this way. They were always so desperate, they no longer cared. This kid still had care, he still had fight left, and Carter didn't want to be the one to take that away. "Someone… someone you know? Get you into this shit?"

Reid was quiet, as he threaded his fingers together, closing himself in. "You could say that."

"Someone you cared about?"

It took some time, but Reid answered. "Yeah. I think so."

Carter stopped, nodding and looking down, and then slowly resumed his walking again. "You sure you want to do this?" he asked, cautious.

Reid didn't say a word. He just kept his head down, and nodded, and they continued on their way.

The further he walked from the hotel, the harder Reid prayed that one of his team would come find him, and save him. But they never did.


	10. Down, Down, Down

CHAPTER 10

Something about the way they hadn't even _heard _from Reid made Morgan's stomach turn. Something was off. Something was odd. Something was very, _very _wrong. And Morgan knew it. The way the kid had just disappeared, but with no signs of struggle... well, that led Morgan to believe the departure had, unfortunately, in fact been voluntary, but he liked to think he knew the kid pretty well, and Reid's complete lack of communication or attempt to return did not seem right. It all seemed wrong.

He knew the kid was scared. Terrified. Horrified, with what he had become. Frightened, of the thing that kept him on such a tight leash. The drug. The high. The glorious feeling of complete and utter invincibility. The thing that made that young, awkward kid feel, even if just for a second, that he was untouchable, as man.

Morgan knew that feeling. A couple of drinks and he was an animal on the dance floor. He never had trouble getting ladies, but it was easy to see where the appeal of liquid courage could come in. But never, never in a million years, did Morgan think he would find Reid injecting his liquid courage into his forearm. Desperate. Drugged. Addicted.

During all of Morgan's panic, Reid wasn't panicking at all. He was gone... he just _was. _He just _stayed, _all he had to do was just _be. _He wasn't himself anymore, because he wasn't anyone at all. He was a shell.

He had become the man in front of Carter's curtain. Managing to evade the FBI was no easy task, but the desperation within Reid outran all judgement and told him; it was what he had to do. He didn't have a choice, or they would take him away. Take Reid away from Carter, take Carter away from him, take the drugs away. Take what Reid needed so desperately right out of his trembling hands. Please. No.

_He did what he had to do_. During the day, he would transact, selling to Carter's various customers and running back to the man with the earnings and a hopeful smile that he had done well enough to deserve a bonus (typically the occasional small bag of high-grade heroin, just to keep Reid's growing addiction at bay. He had never experienced anything as wonderful as the powder before. It transcended all other feelings and took him over completely). During the night, he would rush back to the dingy hotel room he managed to pay for with whatever was left after he had made his purchases back from Carter, slam a needle, and ride the waves for a few hours until he was so sick with shame he couldn't do anything else but sit in shower under the running water, shake, and cry. Then he would start the process over again.

He hated it. He hated what had become. He hated himself. That was it. Himself, not the drug. It wasn't the drug's fault, and Spencer knew, somewhere deep inside, he could never hate the drug as much as he had grown to hate himself. This was all his own doing.

The only thing that kept him going was the hope that he would be found. Yet, he kept running.

He knew, it wasn't his own choice anymore, he was gone, and as he ran and ran and ran, and his body began to fail him, he would slow down a bit, and in those moments, he was always baffled when no one showed up to save him. Did they even want to find him? Did they see him as just a waste? That was probably it. He was a waste of a man; he had taken all of his gifts, those of intellect and creativity, of burdening genius and freeing intelligence, and thrown them out the window for drugs. Nothing more. Not money, not fame. Not women, not success. Just the drugs. That's all there was for him. That's all there was anymore. That was all that was left. Just the shell of the man called Spencer Reid.

Hotch had completely turned around. The stoic man was quickly becoming a nervous wreck, the longer they went on without finding Reid. Inwardly, he knew, Reid didn't want to be found, but that didn't stop Hotch from doing his best damn work to try. He needed his Genius back, safe and sound.

"Hotch. We have something."

"You're kidding." Hotch looked over at the document that Prentiss had set in front of him.

"Missing Persons says someone reported seeing this man with someone who matched Reid's description four days ago in a gas station just east of the city."

"Do we know who this is?"

"Not yet, Garcia is working on it."

"There's a federal agent - _our_ federal agent - missing in all of this. Let's bring him home."

"I'll let you know if I get anything else."

Gideon approached Hotch after this fact. "Hey."

"Yes, Jason."

"Is the kid okay?"

Hotch sighed. "We don't know. We still haven't been able to find him."

Gideon maintained eye contact. "I'm afraid I have some less than favorable news."

"What's that?"

"I spoke with PD. They want us out. They don't see us getting anywhere."

"Not without Reid, we're not-"

"They're ruling as suicides."

Hotch blinked. "They can't do that."

Gideon cocked his head to the side. "They can...and they did."

"Even with the note left?"

Gideon clearly didn't believe the words coming out of his own mouth. He had his doubts, just as Hotch did. "They...believe that the note was written by the victim who's home it was in. Deep-rooted shame caused him to try to lead the family off tracks, keep them from thinking their dad, husband, brother... had killed himself."

This was odd to hear. Even for the profilers of the BAU. Hotch's confusion showed. "They think the victim would rather have his family believe he was murdered than the proposed reality that he took his own life?"

"I didn't say it made sense."

Hotch nodded, glancing down. "It doesn't." As the nearly uncontrollable rage coursed through him, Hotch had to take a moment to clear his head and get himself under control. The last thing he could do right now was lose it in front of his team, and in front of the local authorities. Especially when their opportunity to stay in Denver and continue to search for Reid was on such a short leash.

Obviously, a missing federal agent, that was a top priority, if it had been reported. But Reid wasn't missing, he was just gone. They couldn't report that. He'd be terminated. They couldn't file him as missing, either. If anyone other than the team found him, in the condition they knew he was in at present, well, he'd be terminated for that, too.

Hotch looked up at Gideon. "What do I do, Jason?"

Gideon shrugged. "Stop chasing him. The more you chase, the faster he runs. He won't come to you, either. He thinks he's been abandoned. We need to get in contact with him without getting too close. Let him know we're still here, we want him back, and we are ready when he is, to help him get through this." A brief hesitation, then Gideon's words came out a bit softer. "The kid just needs to know someone cares about him."

Hotch nodded, keeping his eyes on the ground. "How do I get in contact with him?"

Gideon took a moment to think. "I'll let you know when I figure it out."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Reid shivered as he walked through the streets during his shift. His gait was visibly affected, his trembling hands were shoved into his pockets, and he moved slow. To the naked eye, he would have appeared a bit drunk. To the trained eye, it was obvious. He was stoned beyond comprehension.

"Hi. Excuse me. Sir?"

Reid had to work double time just to turn his head and respond to the voice in a publicly acceptable manner. He stumbled over the word. His voice cracked. "Y- yes?"

The figure stepped out of the shadows. A young man... a boy, really, stood; shaking, with his long damp black hair hanging over his eyes and ears. It wasn't raining, so why was the kid soaked to the bone? This half-formed thought sluggishly moved its way through Reid's warped mind.

The boy was nervous. He held his arms crossed over his chest. Reid could see, through his barely-focused eyes, that the boy was young, maybe 18, and despite the cold, he only wore short sleeves. The shirt appeared to have been worn for quite a few days in a row. Even through his haze, Reid was able to zero in on the only detail that mattered: the tracks that criss-crossed the boy's forearms.

"You might be able to help me. I was-"

"You need drugs," Reid finished for him. The kid didn't break eye contact, but his face grew pale, and his eyes dulled a bit with his own shame raging inside.

"Yeah," the boy said, deflating, only then glancing to the side. Reid looked down, then stared up at the sky for guidance. Could he sell to this kid? "Please. I saw you work with someone a few blocks back. I have money, not much, but-"

"But you need it," Reid finished again, his voice falling flat as he saw more and more of himself in this sad, lonely child.

He shrugged sheepishly again. "Yeah."

"Kid..."

"And don't tell me not to, cos you're on them, too." Reid stopped. "You think no one can tell? I can tell. And other than me, you're the only other person I've ever met, who you can just _tell_ is on drugs."

"Hey-"

"What happened to you?"

Reid immediately flashed back to Morgan's words: _What happened to you, kid?_

"W- What?"

"What happened? What made you like this?"

Reid looked away. "Look..." He hesitated. "Listen, kid. Do you want what I have or not?"

"What do you have?"

They transacted. As the young kid injected himself, right there in front of Reid, he felt sick to his stomach, and almost had to turn away to throw up. That also could have been because he had put off shooting up as long as absolutely possible, and was now dying for a hit. He licked his lips, watching the kid finish.

"Hey."

The kid's head had lolled back, and quiet moans occasionally slipped from his dry, parted lips as his eyes drifted shut.

"Hey, kid."

"Hmm."

"What's your name?"

"Dennis."

"Dennis."

"Yeah."

"You mind, if I get this taken care of?"

Dennis shook his head, the motion getting away from him a bit as he nodded off. Reid shot himself with a couple milligrams of the high-quality product that Carter had supplied him with, and the two ducked out of the public eye, collapsing next to each other in a heap where two brick buildings met, in the middle of the lonely city of Denver.

No one worth talking to was walking the streets at 4 AM.

**A/N: Hope y'all enjoyed. Been struggling with some personal issues so this story is going to come with a bit more time in between chapters than I'd prefer, but I hope you all understand. Also, who the hell IS that kid? Someone important, that's who. ^.^ Just don't forget about lil' Dennis throughout the next few chapters. He's a good kid. I sure like him. XP**


	11. To Save Another

**A/N: My apologies to all. My last few chapters have struggled a bit, I sort of lost my way, but now I've found it, and I'm back and happy to be back. Please, please, please, enjoy this chapter. Happier times will be here again, I promise. :) Just a little angst for you, first.**

CHAPTER 11

It wasn't fun and games anymore. If it ever could have been called that. Over time, really only a few days, the boy - Dennis - had become like a little brother to Reid, and it gave Reid a reason to really try. To stay sober as long as he could, to only allow himself reprieve when the withdrawals rendered him absolutely useless. To only shoot up if it was positively necessary. He waited, waited with everything he had, until the last possible second. Every single time. He had to keep an eye on Dennis. The kid was young, very young, and a little stupid, at times. He got himself into trouble, he dabbled in drugs he didn't understand, he transacted with people he didn't know and couldn't trust, he put himself in situations where he was made vulnerable, and was easily viewed by the hawks and lions of the drug world as all-too-easy prey. This frightened Reid, perhaps because he saw a bit of himself in the boy. Smart, very smart, but sometimes, completely lost, socially.

The first time it happened had been painful. Reid came down from a binge, a straight day and a half of sweet oblivion - because that was what he needed now, to maintain his sanity - to find Dennis laying on the ground a few feet away, prone and weak, worn and beaten down, severely. Some guys, with knives, and strong fists, had wanted to send a message to the desperate little shit who had taken them for 4 bags of the powder with his quick wit and sharp tongue. And while Spencer was there physically, inside, he was far away. Somewhere no one could touch him, no one could hurt him. He was sat back against the wall of the pathetic little hotel room they called home together, his eyes barely open, but completely unfocused, and his jaw slack; his ability to control his body long since dissipated, along with his own personal _self-control_, and the will to fight. He had been high for a day and a half, frantically loading up with shaking hands every time he was lucid enough to think, even if those thoughts were half-formed and totally underdeveloped. Only dragged out of half-consciousness by Dennis' low groans, Reid scrambled forward, grabbing at Dennis' wrist, and feeling his pulse. Stupid, really. Of course the kid was alive. He could hear him groaning in pain.

"D-Dennis. Dennis, wake up."

"Mmmmhph."

"Dennis. Oh, my… what happened to you."

"They…they caught me."

He pulled the kid up, leaning him against the wall and noting how severely he shook. The kid was dope-sick, brought on by being physically unable to shoot up because he had been beaten so severely, and had spent so long just laying there, trying to recover from the abuse.

"Caught you doing what?"

"I was out, Tobias. I needed it. I didn't know what to do."

The kid gasped in pain, the kid that meant that Reid was no longer 'the kid', and was now responsible for another, younger, more vulnerable human being. The responsibility fell good, but here he was, fucking it up. Not being there for the kid when he was needed, because he was too busy getting high.

"You stole from them."

Dennis nodded, and winced as his head ached. A hand reached up to grip it, and Spencer's own hand wrapped around Dennis' wrist, pulling the hand away and analyzing the wound.

"You have a laceration towards the front of your skull. This isn't minor, how did this happen?"

Dennis remembered.

_"You think you can steal from us, kid?"_  
_Slam. Slam. Slam. His head collided, hard, with the corner of the bedpost. He felt the crack before his body went limp and he slumped to the ground._  
_"You won't be fucking with us again, I'll tell you that."_  
_Slam. Slam. Slam. He felt the bruises forming as soon as he was dropped to the floor, like a doll. He curled up, whimpering as he frantically scrambled to escape, to escape the pain. _

_Spencer stayed where he was in the corner; one knee up, one leg stretched out, his arms laying limp by his sides. The track marks that adorned his arms made Dennis feel sick. He didn't ever want to be as bad as the man he now called brother. He was here, but he wasn't here. His eyes glazed over, his mouth open, he didn't focus on anything in particular. The door slammed as the men left, and Spencer jolted, moaning softly, his head nodding forward. Dennis tried to move, but the pain was too great._

"They told me not the fuck with them again."

"I'd have to agree with that. The pain, on a scale of one to ten."

Dennis grimaced. "Eight."

Reid nodded, frowning slightly as he pierced the rubber stopper of a vial with a fresh, sterile syringe, focusing intently on measuring the dose. He motioned for Dennis to extend an arm. Dennis was happy to oblige, waiting with ragged breaths as he anticipated his relief.

After tying him off, smacking the skin, and piercing the vein, Reid let the tourniquet fall away, allowing the drug to bombard Dennis' system and rip the pain away.

"Oh…" Dennis immediately fell into his wonderland, his head dropping back as his mouth fell open, groaning.

Reid leaned back onto his heels, just watching as the boy drifted away from him; further and further away. He glanced down at his own arms, particularly the right, which contained the more recent marks, after he had given up on finding veins in the left.

The number of marks was staggering. That couldn't be right. He had only just started using his right arm. And he had always stuck with the rule, no more than twice a day. He was only using twice a day, right? Careful, cautious movements brought him over to the bin, to count. Six. Six times, he had shot up today.

That fact alone warranted another dose.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"This unsub doesn't seem like an unsub at all."

"Why do you say that?"

"I'm thinking multiple offenders. We can't categorize him as organized or disorganized. That would normally lead to DID or a schizophrenic mind, but there is too much organization to be either of those. But in the places where we do see disorganized behavior, it's far too great to be performed by an otherwise organized individual. We're looking for two people, and they're at odds with one another," Gideon finished, and the team looked around at each other for agreement.

"One could be a user," Morgan thought out loud. _Like Reid._ "An otherwise organized person, under the influence of the very drugs that they are targeting. Brought to his knees by a substance that takes complete control." _Like Reid._

"We could be looking at someone who operates under shame. Completely horrified by their own actions, he harms others like himself. He literally projects himself onto his victims," Prentiss offered.

"What does that say about the organized personality?" JJ queried.

Prentiss looked over at her, her voice soft. "It says, the organized personality really doesn't care all that much about the disorganized personality, despite the fact that he may be worshipped by him as being superior."

"Superior, as in, not swayed by the drugs."

"Exactly."

The phone ringing pulled them from this disturbing topic, and they all glanced toward the center of the table, at the conference room, as Garcia's normally cheery, but currently panicked voice, filled the space.

"I found Reid."


	12. To Save Another, Part 2

**A/N: Part two of today's upload, Chapter 11 and 12 are two parts of one big chapter. Please enjoy. **

CHAPTER 12

Gideon immediately stood up, slamming his hands down against the table, just about spitting his words in his panic.

"Where the hell is he?"

Garcia immediately became unsure. "Well, I'm not positive, but it's looking likely."

"Come on, Baby Girl, give it to us. Anything will help," Morgan urged, shaking his head once.

A brief moment of silence over the phone, as Garcia sent up a quick prayer to the Gods of Technology that her information might lead to something useful. "I have a name. I have reason to believe it's an alias he's using. The identity checked into a hotel in Southern Colorado a few days ago."

"What's the name?" Prentiss maintained her stern, stoic demeanor when she asked, not letting the emotions growing inside of her get in the way of finding their Genius.

"Tobias Cornysh."

Gideon released a sharp exhale through his nose. "That's him."

JJ glanced up. "You're sure?"

"William Cornysh was an English writer from the 15th Century. Reid's mother presented many lectures on him when she was still able to."

"He told you this?" Morgan just needed confirmation. The last thing he wanted was to get his hopes up that they had found the boy, only to be sorely mistaken. Gideon nodded.

Garcia agreed. "Reid told me that, too; this one case we were both stuck at Quantico. The name sounded familiar. I looked it up. Think it's a cry for help?"

Prentiss flipped through her notes; not on the case, but on Reid. She had been working hard on finding him, even when she was supposed to be focused on the case. "It sounds like it."

Hotch closed the open case file. This took precedent, now that they had a lead. "Let's go find him."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"I c- I…. I can't do this anymore. I can't."

Reid's words were interrupted by his gasps for breath as he winced, just watching as Carter pulled the needle from Reid's vein, discarding it and quickly untying the tourniquet.

"You'll be fine. Stop talking."

When he first began to feel the drugs - in the early moments of their conquest, and subsequent capture, of his mind, body, and his soul - his head dropped back and connected with the wall, and he winced again. "I don't want it."

"Too late. Shut up."

Reid did. The drug shot through him, zooming past his nerves and dulling each as it did. He could feel them fizzling out, then going numb as all sense of pain, trauma, fear… they all melted away with the sweet song of Dilaudid.

"I…Oh. Mmm..."

"Yeah. That's what I thought."

Their relationship had gone from sweet (simple, easy: drug dealer and his drug-addicted runner. Reid sampled new product, took care of the cash, did quick math, was able to answer scientific questions, and best of all, kept his mouth shut when Carter needed him to) to sour (Reid was so desperate; and Carter was tired of the kid always moaning about wanting to quit, wanting to get out of this hellhole and get his life back) in a matter of weeks.

But Reid still did his job. Because he had to. Because he had a habit to maintain. He had seen what happened when he didn't maintain it.

Ill. That was the only way to describe it. His face paled, he was quickly covered by a thin sheen of sweat. One moment he was burning up, the next he was shivering violently as he searched for warmer shelter. By the time he found a place to stay warm, he was hot again. His hands shook first, then his whole body was a trembling mess.

That was what had happened, directly before Carter had injected Reid.

"I…mmmh… I was… I want to quit…"

"Not on my watch, I can't have you shaking and puking all over my customers in the middle of transactions."

His head dropped forward again as he panted through the first tendrils of the high hitting him. "I want out."

"Then you're out of drugs."

"I don't- I don't care. I- _oh_." Brief hesitation. "I want to stop. P-please…"

That was when Carter had pulled another vial from his pocket and looked over the trembling figure in front of him, with a look that was a warped combination of disgust and morbid curiosity.

Reid could have stopped him. He could have fought back. But he didn't.

Another half dose, more than he had ever taken before, was shot into his vein. He had to keep himself from crying out in the initial rush, before he quickly buried his face against his knees and tried to steady his breathing. The waves kept coming. He was drowning. It was too much. He couldn't handle it. He needed to go to a hospital. He needed help.

Then the door slammed open.

"FBI! Nobody move!" Morgan called, stopping when he saw the scene in front of him.

Reid, face buried in his knees, his arms limp at his sides as his lips parted slightly to produce a weak moan. He shook slightly, his eyes glazed over. The man in front of him: tough, scruffy, dirty. He held a rubber tourniquet and an empty vial in his hands. He leapt back, holding his hands up in defense. Reid couldn't react.

As the rest of the agents around him moved in for the arrest, in what felt like slow motion, Morgan stood, just drinking in the image of Spencer Reid.

The kid had reached the floor, his legs now splayed out and one arm cradling the other against his chest. He was so thin. So frail. And he was so pale. Sick.

Morgan swallowed as he scanned over the kid: from his longer, dirty hair, to the sunken cheeks. From the protruding collar bones peeking through the unopened neck of his tan button-down, to his arms, covered in pinprick wounds. Red, angry wounds that appeared to be infected. They were everywhere.

Morgan zeroed in on his pale, bare feet, and the few pinpricks that ran over his ankles, the tops of his feet, and between his toes. They were easy to see, bright red and irritated. How could the kid walk on feet so destroyed?

That was the word to use. Destroyed. Everything about Reid was destroyed. Even, as Morgan's eyes drifted up to meet Reid's unfocused, barely open ones… even his eyes. Spencer looked dead inside.

He went to him, letting the team handle the asshole who was injecting him. He kneeled next to Reid, gathering one of the kid's hands in both of his own, shaking slightly. "Reid. Reid, come on, man. Come here. Come back."

"Mmm." Reid's eyes shut all the way, and his lips parted again as his head fell back.

Morgan had to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment, the pain wounded him so deeply. His hand found Reid's shoulder, and he squeezed. "Spencer. Please. Come back to us, come on, man."

Reid's eyes barely opened again, and it took him a second to focus on what was happening in front of him. His vision was blurred, he could hardly focus, and all he wanted to do was sleep, and ride the first 10 minutes or so of that crashing tidal wave of euphoria that was shaking him to his core. But the voices wouldn't stop, they wouldn't leave him alone.

He tried to focus. He saw people. People, leading Carter away in cuffs. His half-hearted gaze shifted to the figure next to him, and it took a moment to process the sight. Morgan.

"M- Morg…an."

Morgan smiled. His Genius was back. "Hey, kid." His smile faded. "What did you get yourself into, here, man?"

Reid couldn't help it, an involuntary moan of pleasure slipped and he closed his eyes again. "C-can we talk… can we…later."

Morgan stopped for a moment, then sighed, nodding at the ground and rocking back on his heels. "Yeah." He extended a hand. "But you're coming with us. Ride it out in the van. We'll talk in a while after you've… come down. Sound good?"

Reid tried to nod, but it got away from him a bit, and his head collided with Morgan's shoulder, who caught him and pulled him up. "Come on, Genius."

The kid stumbled along, letting soft noises fall from his lips occasionally, and alternating between eyes half shut, and eyes completely closed. All in all, he wasn't very cooperative, and it took longer than it should have to get him to the car.

Once they had Carter in custody and Reid in the car, all the Agents found themselves staring at him the whole drive back. It was long, maybe an hour and a half, and they were lucky he happened to be in the hotel when they got there. Who this Carter guy was, they had yet to figure it out. But they would. When Reid woke up.


	13. Are We There Yet?

"Tell us everything."

The chair he sat in provided no comfort, as the team surrounded him in the small, cramped office. A prisoner, surrounded by his own family as they interrogated him.

"Do I have to?"

Morgan sighed. "Yes, Reid. We need to know what happened to you."

He looked down. "I don't think you do. I think you want to know. But I don't think you need to know." A brief hesitation, and he spoke the words he really didn't want to say, but knew he had to. "Nothing _happened_ to me. I…I made poor choices."

"That guy, the one you were with. He was doing something to you.

Reid swallowed before he spoke. "I was suffering physiological symptoms of opioid withdrawal." His eyes shifted away from Morgan's. "I wasn't able to administer a dose as a result of those symptoms. He was…helping me out. You can let him go. Please." The last word is strangled. It made Morgan wince.

"He'll go. But you need to tell us what happened."

"Logically, I don't see any reason why you need to know the specifics. You've found me, and as you can see, I am alive and well."

The image of Reid in front of him told Morgan the kid was not well: he was far too thin, he shook severely, his long, unruly hair fell over his broken eyes. While a shower had cleaned away the dirt and grime, the _brokenness_ in the boy still remained. The shower had even cleansed him so his paler skin showed through, so sallow and thin, and the red sores that covered his forearms, wrists and ankles were even more obvious.

"Reid. You're not well."

Reid could have answered with how he truly felt, which was much like how he looked: dirty, broken, and so full of pain; but he didn't. Instead, he said, "'Well' is actually a subjective term with no quantifiable amount to attribute to it. If I say I'm well, then I'm well."

Morgan stood at this, slamming a palm down on the table in his rage. Reid jumped, keeping his head down. "Dammit, Reid, why the hell are you shutting us out?!" Reid didn't answer, he just looked away, folding his hands, then separating them, then tangling his fingers together. Gideon touched a hand to Morgan's shoulder. He was calm when he approached the agent.

"Take a break, Morgan." The man took a deep breath through his nose, released a sharp exhale, and gave a nod. Morgan walked out the door, hands balled into fists. Gideon took his seat, placing a palm on the table. "Reid?" Reid twiddled his thumbs, keeping his eyes down. Gideon tried again. "Reid, can you look at me?" Reid did, after a moment of consideration. "Why won't you tell us what happened?"

Reid's response was almost inaudible. "Nothing happened. I just… I messed up. I got messed up, somewhere along the way. And I couldn't get out." He hesitated. "You saved me. I wouldn't have been able to come back. I wouldn't have…" He broke as the tears forming in his eyes streaked his cheeks, and the words got caught in his throat. "You saved me."

Gideon sighed, leaning forward in his seat. "We're not done saving you yet. Things will get better, Reid. We will get you healthy again."

Reid cut in. "By 'healthy', you mean 'sober'."

Caught off guard by the statement, Gideon raised his eyebrows, then leaned back. "Yes. Sober."

The word rung in his ears. _Dennis_. "We need to find my friend."

"Who's your friend?"

"A kid, his name is Dennis. We need to find him and help him."

Gideon nodded. "We can do that. How are you feeling?"

Reid looked up again, after playing with a loose thread on his shirt. His eyes screamed of the pain he was in. "I'm scared," he admitted, his voice softly lilting up with the fear.

"I know. It'll be okay."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

DAY ONE

Reid was not okay.

"I can't do this," he panted. Now that they had found Reid, they could focus 100% of their attention on the case. Well, almost 100%. A good portion went to rehabilitating Spencer Reid.

He had sunk down the wall to the floor, exhausted, after yet another bout of vomiting. His thin frame shook on his legs, which struggled to support his insubstantial weight. Morgan stood beside him.

When Reid wasn't shaken to the core by the vile realities of withdrawal, he was struggling to stay focused on the case. He was irritable, shaky, paranoid, and worst of all, his brain seemed fractured as it struggled to survive without the drug. He couldn't keep things together, his finely tuned machine was failing him. The cloudy haze that had settled over Spencer's mind would not lift, and the worst of it was knowing the only thing that would remedy it was the one thing he could not have.

"You know, statistically speaking, those who wean off their drugs of choice rather than quit cold turkey have much better chances of staying sober."

"I think you're making that up," said Morgan.

DAY TWO

"So you figured out that we're working with two unsubs," Reid muttered, fidgeting with that loose thread on his shirt again. JJ was just dying to reach over and pluck it away, but she decided it was a much better coping mechanism than the one he'd been using before.

"You had already figured it out?" JJ asked.

"Of course I had already figured it out," he finished, keeping his eyes cast down.

Prentiss watched them. She wanted so badly to help Reid, but she didn't know how. "Reid, how are you feeling?"

Reid shoved his shaking hands into his lap, and took a deep breath, before looking up at Prentiss, plastering on a weak smile. "I'm well, thank you. How are you?"

His voice broke off at the end, and he winced. Prentiss saw this. She knew that he was well aware that was not what she had meant. And she wasn't about to let him get away with that. Spencer was far too vulnerable, far too wounded, and far too sick to just be 'fine'. And he was far too smart to think she would fall for that. She cleared her throat, nodding to him. He got the hint, and gave in, answering quickly. "I'm quite nauseous, I'm experiencing severe cephalalgia, I can't think or focus, my hands won't stop shaking, it's extremely hot in here, and all I want in the world right now is to use again, okay?" He stuttered over his last words in his panic and fear. "Does, does that sufficiently answer your question? Hm?"

Prentiss leaned back in her chair, letting out her breath in a slow woos, tapping a pen against the surface of the table. JJ's voice came quietly, from, it seemed, out of nowhere. "Please don't do that, Spence."

"Do what?" His words were sharp when he turned his attention to her. It took her by surprise.

"Go back to that life. Please don't."

Reid had to shut his eyes for a moment, and swallow, just to keep himself under control, but then he was up and dashing for the bathroom, the back of his hand over his mouth. They just had to watch.

DAY THREE

Reid couldn't work.

Not when he was curled up, shivering under the blankets in his Bureau-assigned hotel room, much nicer than his previous residence in Denver had been. The legs that he once stood on would not behave; they kicked and spasmed and ached and tensed. The hands that he so often fiddled with in his nervousness trembled constantly. The head that he relied on so heavily - as his greatest asset - ached and pounded, rendering it useless. Reid could not call upon his mental dictionary or lexicon, atlas or encyclopedia; his mind was instead replaced with a throbbing sense of emptiness. WIthout his mind, Reid was useless.

"Hey. Hey, kid. I brought you soup," Morgan started, after quietly entering, careful not to make too much noise when the door clicked shut behind him. "You need to eat something, you're getting skinnier every time I see you."

Reid could only weakly mutter his response through dry, cracked lips. "I won't be able to keep it down."

"At least try. You've gotta at least-" Reid suddenly cut him off with an idea.

"If I dictate, could you write a letter to my mom? I haven't been able to write to her, not since…" He trailed off.

Morgan stood for a moment, then looked down, nodding and setting the soup down on the desk. When he sat down and tore off a piece of the notepad on the desk, branded with the hotel logo, Reid sat up a bit in his bed, leaning back against the wall. He cleared his throat.

"Um…" He cleared his throat again, this time shutting his eyes, sending up a silent prayer that he could at least get through this letter without being sick. "Hi…Mom…"

Spencer trailed off. How does one write a letter to their mother, after something like this? The biggest worry wasn't telling her about the drugs; Spencer knew that was irrelevant, his mother would always love him, no matter what. The hardest part would be explaining why it had been so long since he had sent a letter. The drugs were forgivable, he knew, but the fact that somewhere along the way, the drugs had become more important than taking ten minutes to write a letter to his mother, that they had become so important… he didn't even have time for a quick, 'I love you'… Reid would never forgive himself for that fact. He sniffled once, rubbing at his nose.

"Mom," he started again. "I really hope… I hope you're doing well. I'm so, so sorry… it's been so long. I…" He stared up at the ceiling, willing the tears to crawl back into his eyes as he tangled his shaking fingers together. "I messed up, and I got sick, and I lost sight of what was important, for a while. And I'm sorry for that, but I want you to know that even though it's been a while, not for a minute did I ever stop loving you, and not a moment passed that I didn't think of you. I just… I just lost my way."

Morgan scrawled this down, his jaw set in his anger. Not anger with the kid, but anger with fate, with the Gods, for putting the kid through this. He didn't deserve this kind of pain. He was too good.

"I… I made some poor choices, Mom. I got involved in some things… some dangerous things. I… Drugs, Mom. I got mixed up with drugs. There was a case, and I just couldn't deal with it. And I made… I made myself so sick. It was all me, I made myself so sick, because of this thing, this awful thing, that had taken me and just wouldn't let go… but I'm getting help. And I'm going to be better. I'm going to get well, I promise. And when this is all done, I'm going to take some time off, and I'm going to come see you. Because I really, really miss you, and I love you, so much." He paused, looking back down again and wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. "Everything is going to be okay. I promise. I love you." A small whimper fell from Reid's lips, and with that, he signed off. "Spencer."

Morgan finished writing, dropping the pen and scrubbing his hands over his face. He would not let Spencer see the tears welling up in his own eyes. "I'll get that typed up and sent ASAP. I promise. Next day mail."

Reid looked down, his voice catching in his throat. "Thank you. That means a lot."

"I know it does, buddy. I know it does."


	14. Miles from Home

DAY FOUR. EVENING.

_"Hi Spencer,_

_I'm saddened to hear of what you're going through, but I know you are my strong, smart boy, and you will work through this. This does not change how much I love you, or my faith in you. I know you will overcome this, just the way you've overcome any obstacle that stood in front of your path to success. You are my beautiful boy, and you will beat this._

_I do not fault you for staying silent for a time, as I would have done the same thing if I was in the position you are in. I'm so proud of you, for making the decision to get help, and to get back on track. You are so perfect, son. I love you. Mom."_

Reid held the page with trembling fingers, the tears streaking down his face at the memory of how much he had just fucked up.

Not minutes before finding the letter on his bed, he had stumbled into his hotel room after a long day on the case, positively riddled with withdrawal symptoms, to find two vials of his preferred poison, two syringes, a tourniquet, and a small card. 'Scum', it said. This was Spencer's way of justifying this. He was scum. He didn't deserve the help his team offered, and he didn't deserve his mother's forgiveness. He cried as he pierced the skin. He cried as he staggered to the bed, wading through the rush, to find the letter that had been placed there.. He cried as he tore it open, and he cried as he read it through his tear-streaked vision and his clouded mind. And then, as the climax of the rush crashed over him, everything went black.

DAY FIVE. MORNING.

"Spence! Spence, open the door!" The longer she went without a response, the more frantic JJ became. Morgan was walked by towards his own room. "Morgan, can you…?" She quickly, quietly motioned to the door.

He stopped, to see what was going on, and the panic settled over his stomach as he realized what was happening. He slammed on the door, once, twice, then dashed down the hall to the stairs without a word. When he returned, he held an electronic key. The look on JJ's face was purely questioning. How…?

"I told them I was FBI, said I had probable cause that a federal agent was injured in here," he answered, before she could even ask.

When he inserted the key, and shouldered the door open, the first thing he noticed was that the door hit something partway through. He pushed a little harder, letting the object move, and when he entered, he found it to be the base of a lamp. Once that was out of the way, he was able to take in the scene.

Shambles. That was one word for it. Destroyed, was another. There was only one word, though, for the sight of his friend, curled up in the bathtub, rocking softly as a sweet song pulsed through his ears and he mumbled softly along with it, his eyes gently shut and his mouth never fully controlled by his brain. He couldn't control much of anything. The word was sad.

When Morgan moved all the way into the bathroom, his foot touched something that began to roll away. He picked it up: an empty vial. The syringe sat on the edge of the sink, facing out. Cautious movements disposed of the thing so it was no longer a danger.

"Morgan," JJ called softly. "Come out here. He used."

"I know. He did in here, too."

"Where did he get these?" she questioned, holding up the vial, one tear cutting a path down her cheek.

Morgan stepped out, cautious not to step on any of the hotel property that had been thrown about the room. "My guess? It has something to do with this." He held up the card. JJ's hand flew to her mouth, and Morgan spoke the words they both knew, but didn't want to say. "He's the next target."

JJ immediately ran to the bathroom, shaking and crying and attempting to pull Spencer out of the tub. She was able to, with how much weight he had lost, and she immediately wrapped him up as he lay there, rocking him softly and murmuring against his hair. "You're not going anywhere. You're staying here with me. I won't let them take you. It's going to be okay." She repeated this mantra. Over and over.

Morgan, while continuing to clean up, found the letter. He didn't read it. It wasn't his to read. But he knew what it was. He called back to JJ. "He okay?"

Reid mumbled. "Hmm."

JJ shushed him softly, combing through his hair with her fingers. "He'll be okay. He's coming down."

Morgan appeared in the doorway. "Hey. Genius."

"Mm." When Reid's voice came, it was weak. His eyes were still shut.

"I thought we agreed you were gonna get off this stuff."

Reid's eyes opened a bit, just for a moment, and his gaze flitted over Morgan once. They shut again, and he cleared his throat softly before the weak whisper came. "I'm sorry."

Morgan shook his head and turned away. He hated this, hated seeing the destruction of his best friend. The boy was too young for this much pain, too good for this much punishment.

"I can't let this go," he said, quiet.

Reid sighed and snuggled up closer against JJ in his stoned comfort. "Please don't." He didn't sound too concerned. It was a pretty good indicator of how high he was… Reid, the _real_ Reid, would have cared. He would have been at Morgan's feet, on his knees, begging and pleading, arguing with statistics and offering compromises. The _real_ Reid didn't just give up like this. Morgan inhaled sharply, and held up the small card he had found.

"We'll talk more about that when you're sober. Right now, you need to tell me who left this here."

"I dunno," came the muffled response as Reid buried his face against JJ's shoulder, who just sighed, holding him, looking up at Morgan for help. The elder agent had just about had it. He stomped forward, grabbing Reid's shoulder, and yanked him up, shoving him into the wall and holding the note up in front of his eyes. This resulted in a reaction from Reid. The boy winced and whimpered as he was thrown into the wall, then studied both Morgan and the card, his eyes flitting between the two of them. "I- I don't know! I don't!"

Morgan became furious. _"I don't want you to die, kid."_ He calmed a bit, breathing heavily, and then this: "I need you to cooperate with me here. Was it that guy we arrested? The one _you_ asked for us to let go? I bet it was, wasn't it. He's a killer, and you stood by his side for _weeks_ as you drugged yourself up, over and over and _over_, didn't you. You probably helped him, too. He was your supplier and you didn't have any way to get him money without alerting us to where you were. You worked for him, didn't you. He make you do anything you regret, Reid? Hm? Anything we should know about?!"

Reid was crying now, his fear written all over his face. JJ just stood back, tears streaming down her face, as well. "Morgan, please. He's not an unsub. Don't treat him like one." Morgan, still staring down Reid, let go. Reid slumped slightly, sinking down the wall till he hit the floor and buried his face in his knees as he cried, the result of hearing Morgan profile him to perfection, pinning down the exact details of Reid's life as a homeless, drug-addicted runner for a man who "took care" of clients who couldn't pay. Reid wasn't stupid. Reid was far from stupid. He knew what that meant. He was alway just too high to care. And when he was sober, and lucid enough to realize what he was doing and who he was running with… he only knew of one way to make that pain go away.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…" Reid sobbed into an arm, his hands shaking and his knees knocking together in his fear, shame, and of course, the come-down from a high that gripped him completely. It took him away for a while, and the process of returning to his body was never comfortable.

"Did you know he was our unsub?" Morgan shouted. Reid winced again, and JJ placed a hand on Morgan's shoulder, to subdue him a bit.

"I didn't, I swear I didn't. I knew he was doing bad things, but I didn't know the extent, I swear…"

"You better not be lying to me, kid."

"I'm not, I wouldn't, I swear-"

Morgan became angry again. "Oh, you wouldn't? Just the way you swore to me, up and down, that you were done with this shit and that you wanted to get clean?"

Reid was crying again, this time his head thrown back against the wall and his eyes squeezed shut. "I do, I swear I do. Please, Morgan. I do. I just came in and they were here, I didn't buy it, I wasn't going… I wasn't going to. But I couldn't, I couldn't stop myself. I tried… and then as soon as I had, I saw the note from my mom, and I just… I just needed the other one. I'm so sorry, I'm sorry. I'm really, I'm sorry. I'm sorry…" He continued to mumble these words as he buried his face in his knees again, and Morgan's face softened. He knelt next to the kid, a hand dropping on Reid's shoulder.

"You really want this, don't you. You want to get clean."

A sob fell from Reid's throat as he nodded, face still buried. "I don't want to do this anymore. Please, I... I can't. I can't stop. I don't, I don't know what to do. Please help me, please..." he sobbed, his voice muffled.

Morgan shut his eyes for a moment, and JJ had to look away. "You can do this. We will help you. We want to help you." He hesitates. "We love you, kid. You're better than this, come on, now." Reid took deep, shaking breaths in response to this, the high almost completely taken with the wind pouring out the open window. Morgan looked up, and out the window. An exit route? He immediately went to the window, looking out for cameras. "JJ!" he called back.

"Yeah?" She wouldn't leave Reid's side.

"This could have been an exit route. Reid, did you open this window?" Reid shook his head. He was obviously too caught up in his own problems, and the thusly-occuring high, to notice the open window.

"Get me streets that open up from this alley exit, find me any cameras within a mile radius, and get this info to Hotch. We know what our unsub looks like, we just don't have a name or location."

"Got it." A brief moment, then her face softened as she shrugged. "I… I won't leave Reid alone."

Morgan nodded, waving her off. "I'll stay with him. Get this to Hotch. Leave… leave this… whole thing… out of that."

"Of course."

DAY SIX.

"Reid. Reid, man, can you hear me?" Silence. "Reid, I need to know if you're still with me."

"Uh… yeah…" Reid barely managed those two syllables before his stomach lurched again, and with shaking arms, he was able to lift himself up off the ground to aim for the toilet. Again.

Morgan stood with his arms crossed over his chest, frowning at the sight below him. Spencer Reid, shivering, but soaked to the bone in a cold sweat, on the bathroom floor, wrapped in a blanket that he took great care, even in his condition, to keep clean and out of the way when he had to pull himself up to be sick.

"How is this possible, you haven't been able to eat anything."

"Bile, the acid produced by the liver to-" He broke off as he leaned over to vomit again.

"Easy, kid. Don't worry about it, I have the internet."

"Actually, the internet has you. If you look at the numbers, the hours that people spend on the internet as opposed to living actual life is astounding, it's-"

"Reid. It's all good."

Reid nodded, collapsing to the floor again. He pressed his cheek against the tile. "S'feels good."

"That's gross."

"So is vomiting bile."

"So is drug addiction."

Reid chuckled weakly. "You win."

Morgan winked. "Of course I win."

**A/N: This chapter was really tough for me, but I think the hardest part will be working out logistics in terms of finding Carter and BRINGING HIM TO JUSTICE. Just keep your eyes open for some important people in the next few chapters. Some have already been introduced, some are members of the team, and some haven't been introduced yet. But there are some CRUCIAL PEOPLE in BRINGING THIS GUY DOWN. **

**Haha. Hell yeah. :)**


	15. Letting Him Go

CHAPTER 15

A WEEK EARLIER

Reid had never felt so alone.

Sure, he had 'friends', but they did not ring true. They didn't sit right with him. They were fake. The people who only cared about him when he had drugs for them… those weren't his friends. The team. JJ. Morgan. Hotch. Gideon. Prentiss. Garcia. _They_ were his friends. They were the people who cared about him all the time. Who had tried to get him off the drugs the moment they had found out. The people who were there for him… had always been there for him. Those were his real friends.

"Kid. What have you got for me tonight." Carter asked this question often. It seemed to be the only question he ever asked Spencer. Not how he was doing. Not if he felt okay. Not about his life. Just how much money the sales had yielded.

"I, uh… I've got $1600. For you." Spencer was quiet when he spoke. He spoke when he was asked a question, and even then, it could be iffy. He didn't know what would happen. Would he get shoved into a wall for speaking out of turn? Slapped across the face? A punch to the gut? Or worse? Would he be denied his drugs?

"That's… that's weaker than I expected. Were you even doing your job?"

"It was a dry night, there was a meeting, an NA meeting, nearby. Most of the regulars were there." A brief pause. "Trying to get help." Help. The only thing Spencer wanted more than the drug.

"Abso-fuckin-lutely ridiculous, none of those fuckers are gonna get clean, I don't know what they're playing at."

Reid didn't say anything. He had been considering going since he had thrown himself onto the street. He was a changed man. For the better? Was he more street smart? For the worse? Was he just a drug-addicted fiend, worth nothing more than whatever was left at the end of the night? He tried, to keep this aspect of his life in control, but the fibers of it were all woven together, far too tight. They became a solid entity, a thing. A label, that could now be attributed to Spencer. _Addict_. He wore it like a sign on his fucking forehead.

Carter kept the kid in line. He spent whatever time he had to spare on the streets, showing the kid how to hustle, how to work the customers the right way, how to bump up their order from a half to a whole. And Spencer went along with it. Who was the master? The drug? Or the man providing it? The line was blurred. Spencer didn't know. Spencer didn't care. His life had been broken to pieces, made to be incomplete, a half-finished connect-the-dot. The guidelines were the pockmarks that covered his forearms and wrists, ankles and toes. Connect them, and you might find a complete story. Spencer's story. But for now, they were just fragments.

The first night Carter came home late, Spencer waited, in withdrawal-riddled misery. The time was divided, spent partly rocking on the floor, moaning in pain, partly curled up in the bathtub with a hot shower pounding down on him as he shivered, and partly bent over the toilet as he was sick, over and over. Sometimes he wondered if it was enough to kill him. Sometimes he wished it would be. When Carter did finally come in the door, he was strung out. Completely doped out of his mind. That was never a good sign. Reid's first instinct, his gut feeling, told him it hadn't been a good day. Perhaps sales weren't as high as Carter wouldn't have liked. They weren't high enough, so Carter got high enough. That's what Reid would have done. It probably meant there wasn't much left for Reid. When Carter re-told the details of getting busted up by the cops, only to be told to 'run off and get off the streets', like a misbehaving child, Reid knew… there wasn't anything left. What Carter didn't sell, usually went to Spencer. Tonight, what Carter didn't sell, he used. Spencer spent the night in the bathroom, his time divided between shivering in the tub and retching over the toilet. Carter just shouted for him to shut up.

The second night Carter came home late, he looked exhausted. He was dirty. There was blood on his chin. Reid went to ask him what was wrong, but Carter waved the situation away, tossing Reid a vial. Go get high and shut up. Don't ask. Reid did what he was told. He got high and shut up. But he knew what had happened. Someone couldn't pay. And Carter "took care" of them.

It was easier to forget about when he was high.

TODAY

"And… and that's it. That's what happened." Reid finished, quiet.

Re-telling the story had been painful, horrifically so. By the end of it, all he wanted was to get high and forget the whole thing. But he couldn't. Because he was being watched. By Morgan. By JJ. By Hotch, who apparently knew that Reid had relapsed, even though Morgan promised he wouldn't tell. Reid knew that Hotch knew, because his supervisor couldn't keep his eye off of the kid. That was saying something. Reid was typically a bit of a troublemaker, without even meaning to be, so he was always under watch, but this was different. This was protective, this was defensive. He wanted to protect his youngest agent, but he wanted to prepare his team for if the kid fell again. Reid didn't want to fall again, but he knew it was only a matter of time. They let him alone, he would be out that door and back at Carter's feet, regardless of the fact that the man was a killer and wanted him dead. Either way, Reid was okay with whatever Carter had to offer. Drugs or death. Reid would readily welcome either, at this point. He was so sick, he was so tired.

"That's everything? You swear?" Reid nodded at Morgan's question, keeping his eyes down. Rehashing everything he had seen, everything Carter had asked of him… everything he had done for the drugs, it made him sick.

"May I go? I need to write my mom."

Morgan nodded, waving him off. He watched after the kid, though. He watched his movements… he could feel Reid's every ache and pain as he walked away. He could see the tension in Reid's bones, the stiffness… the sickness. The kid was in so much pain… physical and psychological, and it tore Morgan apart, knowing there was nothing he could do.

"Hi Mom,

I hope you're well. I miss you.

I just wanted you to know, today was my first full day sober, in a long time. I know it's not much, but it means a lot to me, and it's important, for me. Physically, and psychologically. I'm still struggling. I'm sure you know what people in my situation go through, when getting clean. But I'm managing it. My team is helping. They're not reporting it, so I'll be able to keep my job. It feels wrong, to let them do this for me, but at the same time, is it completely selfish to know I'm better than this, and that I'm an asset to my team? I can't lose this job. I really can't. I'm not sure of what I would do, if I did. If it's okay with you, I was hoping I could schedule a call with you, within the next few days. I just really need to hear your voice.

I really miss you, Mom. I love you.

Spencer."

Reid immediately regretted sending the letter. His mom didn't need to know how hard it was for him to stay sober for one day. The empty aching he felt as he imagined her reading that portion, it wounded him straight to the heart. He wasn't sure how much more his heart could take. He wanted to use. If any moment had ever occurred where he wanted to use, this was it.

"Reid." He looked up toward the source of his name. Morgan. "Can I ask you a few questions? About this Carter guy?" Reid nodded and followed. Anything to take his mind away from the nagging sensation, in the back of his mind.


	16. Escape

CHAPTER 16

The sickness came in waves. It didn't ebb and flow like calm waters being gently pulled by the currents; it came crashing down over him in tidal waves that would quickly retreat when finished, leaving Reid's heart destroyed and his throat dry. It was not comfortable, it was not safe, and it felt like it was never going to get better. Spencer knew, in his genius mind, all the statistics, how long withdrawal lasted, what it took to successfully get clean. He knew exactly what he needed to do, but this did not change the fact that he was not just a genius anymore, he was also an addict. No matter what kind of facts or figures he knew, sticking to them… believing in them; that would not be easy. Knowing the statistics and rules wasn't enough. He had to live them. And he had forgotten how to live.

They had tried to get information out of him, as much as they could. But his memory was foggy, and his brain was slow to respond. "He called himself Carter. He wore a Cowboys cap a lot. That's all I've got." Reid sighed. He knew, the best way to find Carter was to give them anything that remained constant with the man. Anything that could be linked to who he was as a person. Anything he held as gospel. Anything, anything that could connect pieces together about the awful man who called himself Carter, the drug dealer who, for some reason, wanted to kill off the drug-addicted population of Denver.

"Okay, okay, Dallas. Any idea when he came to Denver?"

"He's been here three years."

"Good, I can get that to Garcia. Anything else?"

Reid couldn't come up with much of anything else. He typically wore discount clothes, he ate American-style. Unfortunately, Reid had spent most of his time with Carter trusting him, as his only source of his relief. If he had suspected Carter, he would have been profiling him… hell, even if he hadn't, he would have paid attention, as he usually did… but most of his time with Carter was spent in a drugged daze. "I'm sorry, I wasn't really… there," Reid quietly admitted. "I'm sorry."

Morgan shook his head, face softening. "No, no. It's okay, kid. It's fine. We'll get him."

Garcia took the little information she had and cross-referenced major distribution charges from Denver in the last three years, and in Dallas and surrounding areas prior to three years back, with a margin of five, to come up with 86 names. 74 male. 37 white. Thirty-seven possible suspects.

"Reid, do you think you could look at some pictures?" Morgan asked when he came back into the room, his eyes trained on the files. When he didn't get an answer, he looked up. Reid wasn't there. "Reid? Reid!"

"Bathroom," a weak, cracked voice called out, and Morgan winced as he went to the door, hearing the retching begin again.

Morgan slumped slightly, seeing Reid's knees and feet under the partition as the kid emptied his stomach. "You okay, kid?"

He knew Reid wasn't okay. He knew it because of the way Reid walked, talked, the way he held himself. The faces he made… the way his face was constantly contorted into a combination of severe pain, intense sadness, and crippling fear. The way his voice was so unsure now, a stark contrast to his almost naive confidence, an absolute sureness that everything he said was 100% right (which it always was) and that it would be 100% well-received (which it sometimes wasn't). Now he wasn't so sure. He was frightened to speak unless spoken to. It confirmed for Morgan that the relationship between Reid and Carter went far beyond simply dealer and purchaser, employer and employee. The kid was severely beaten when they found him. Morgan had a guess as to what had happened.

It made him feel as sick as Reid was.

"I'm good. I'm okay." Reid exited the stall, stumbling slightly, and sighed as he sluggishly made his way to the sink, splashing the cool water over his flushed skin. Morgan raised an eyebrow, and crossed his arms in front of his chest. Reid saw this in the mirror's reflection, and sighed. "I'm okay. I really am. I'm in a bit of pain, but I'll be fine." He hesitated. "I hate doing this, but-"

Morgan already knew. "I'll take you back to the hotel. Get you some rest."

Reid kept his eyes down. "Thank you."

In the car, Reid seemed to tire even further. Morgan glanced over occasionally, studying the kid. "Hey." Reid looked over at him. His eyes were tired. "Tell me about this Dennis kid."

Reid immediately perked up a bit. "Did you find him?"

Morgan paused, took a breath as though to speak, then shook his head. "Not yet. We're still looking. What's he like?"

Dennis was… different. He wasn't like most kids Reid had encountered on the street. He had an optimism in him that said he hadn't given in to the drug completely, the way Spencer had, despite his severe addiction. He was optimistic that he would get out of it, and he tried. He tried, over and over again, and Spencer was always there every time the kid finally gave in and meekly requested however much of the drug he could buy with the cash he had managed to scrounge up. Spencer always slipped him a little more than he could pay for, even if it meant taking out of his own cut. "He was a a good kid."

"Like you," Morgan urged him to acknowledge that fact, but Reid just looked down, tangling his fingers together. They pulled up to the hotel. "Here, I'll walk you up."

Reid muttered a quiet thanks as they went, and upon reaching the door, Morgan said the thing he had been dying to say since that morning. "I'm staying. I'm not comfortable leaving you alone." Reid shook his head, almost frantic.

"I'll be okay, I-"

"There a reason I shouldn't stay?"

Reid's shoulders slumped. "I just don't want to get in your way." Hesitation, while he let those words, and their truth, sink in. "I'll be okay. I promise. I'll stay here." He straightened up a bit. Confident. "I want to stay."

"You won't run," Morgan tested.

"I won't run."

After Morgan left, while hesitantly, and as Reid stood on a chair to rifle around the space above the ceiling tile in the corner of the room, one thought crossed his mind:_ Never trust an addict._

He got high, and he didn't regret it. He just reveled in the beauty of the moment, of the glorious song that the drug sung to him, and only him. He got high, and he loved it. And he wasn't sorry.

When Morgan found him the next morning, curled up with a pillow in the bathtub, with a vial on the floor and a fresh wound on his arm, he couldn't put words to how sorry he was.

"Reid. Reid, come back to me, man." He shook the kid's light weight, desperate. "Kid, come on." He couldn't keep the tears from cutting paths down his face, with the regret and fault he felt because of his actions. His stupid actions. Letting the kid alone. Who was he kidding? "Reid. Reid." The kid stirred, and moaned softly, wincing when he saw Morgan above him. He tucked his head against his arms, hiding from Morgan, hiding from the situation. Hiding from himself. "Please look at me."

"No."

"Reid." Spencer stirred again, burying his face further with the shame of what he had done. A moment, and then he looked up, his eyes weakened with the rage he felt, all directed within.

"I'm sorry."

"No, you're not. If you were, you'd be trying. You would have asked me to stay. You would have told me you were going to use if I left."

Reid looked away, his lip trembling. "You're right."

"Damn right, I'm right." Morgan held out a hand. "Come on, kid."

Reid took it, climbing out of the shower, shivering as the come-down hit him. Morgan steadied him, and they went to go sit at the edge of the bed, both looking down, both folding their hands together. Only Reid trembled.

"I… I need help."

"I know, kid. I know."

"Please help me. I don't know what to do. I don't want this anymore."

"I will, Reid."

"Please."

"I said I will."

Reid looked down for a moment, then back up at Morgan. "When can we start?"

"We can start right now, if you want."

Reid looked down again. "It's stupid to ask for one more time," he tested.

"Yeah, kid. It's stupid. But you're not stupid. Don't let yourself think that."

Reid nodded. He felt stupid for getting into this in the first place. "I won't."


	17. The Liar

**A/N: Extra long chapter today for you! This one is hard, I know. Don't kill me, please. I love you. I promise.**

CHAPTER 17

"Another intervention?"

"Not necessary," Morgan responded to Garcia's question quickly. They needed to know Reid wanted this, and wanted it badly. "He's going to be okay. He's on the right path." He hesitated. "He wants… he _needs_ sobriety. He just doesn't know how to quit." Around the table, the team nodded. "We don't have access to rehabs or medications. We get him in a program, and he'll be booted from the Bureau faster than we can catch an unsub." Another group nod. "We need to taper him off."

"So administer him the drug ourselves," Prentiss confirmed. Morgan hesitated again, then nodded.

"Yeah. This is not going to be easy. He's going to manipulate, twist around words, make promises. He's going to threaten you, threaten himself, threaten his own life. He will be very sick for the first few days once he's off completely. We've decided to taper quite rapidly. This is primarily for his own safety. It will only slightly curb the edge from the withdrawals."

"This is the best way?" JJ asked. Morgan nodded again.

"This… this is the only way. We'll work in shifts. Day one, first shift is myself and Garcia, second shift is JJ and Gideon. Day two, first shift is Prentiss and Garcia, second shift is myself and JJ. Third day…" It went on.

* * *

DAY ONE, AGAIN.

"Okay, please, get me the hell out of here."

"Watch it, Reid. We don't have to be here."

"I don't really want you here, actually."

"That's tough, because, even though we don't have to be, we're gonna be, and we're gonna be putting up with your drug-addicted ass for weeks while you get yourself clean. So watch yourself."

Reid sunk back at Morgan's scathing remark, truly intended as tough love.

Reid held out an arm. "I'd like it now."

"You don't get it now."

"Well I won't take it later."

"I don't care. You don't get it now."

Reid was scratching, all over. His forehead was covered with a thin sheen of sweat and he trembled. "Please," he squeaked, running a hand through his unruly hair.

"No."

Reid seemed to sink, his heart falling low as his body sunk against the wall to the floor. He buried his face against his knees and cried.

2 HOURS LATER.

Morgan and Garcia sat back and watched in disgust, after simultaneously working together to inject the kid, who was shaking feverishly.

They watched as he sighed in relief the moment the needle slid under his skin, and sighed deeper when the drug was shot into his vein. They watched him sink within himself, they watched his jaw go slack and his eyelids hover half shut as his pupils disappeared into pinpricks. They just watched.

They both felt sick. And when he came out of it a few minutes later, still stoned and relaxed, neither of them wanted to say anything to their poor Spencer. Their disgust was too strong.

Reid was constantly surrounded, never let alone for a minute, by his own friends, and yet, he had never felt so alone. They were babysitting him, they were merely tolerating him as they all felt the blow of Reid at his worst: coming off the hardest of drugs. And he suffered through it, surrounded, and yet so alone. No one understood, they just pretended to. He wanted to be clean, but he didn't want to be sober. They had to understand that. He had to make them understand.

DAY TWO, AGAIN.

Prentiss and Garcia had to look away as Reid was sick over the toilet. The dose he had been provided yesterday was not nearly enough to see him through, and he felt it.

"How about we split the dose in half? That could, that could curb the side effects better, the half life is a good length, actually. Half now, half later?"

"No, Reid."

Reid tried to respond, but instead he found himself bent over the toilet again.

DAY THREE, AGAIN.

Reid watched, with tired, glassy eyes as Gideon carefully injected the substance into Reid's arm. His eyes drifted shut, and a soft moan fell from his lips. "Oh…"

He drifted off to enjoy the initial high, he was somewhere between sleep and awake, and Gideon took the opportunity to mourn the loss of his second son, even though the kid was on his way up. Gideon knew the statistics. So did Reid. He never though he'd find himself in this position. Just a statistic. Ready to fail, again.

"Reid."

"Mm."

"How has it been? With the others?"

It had been hard. Reid felt isolated, he felt watched. He felt like a rat in a cage, being observed as a specimen as they injected him with things and watched his reaction. Changed the dose to see how it affected him. He just wanted control back, even if it meant controlling the needle, guiding it towards his own skin. Control of his entire life was too hard. He just wanted to control when he felt pain, and when he didn't.

"It's… it's been better, Gideon. I've seen better."

"Are they being good to you?"

"They're fine, it's not them… I'm just, I'm tired. I'm really tired. I don't want to try anymore." He looked over at Gideon. "Am I a terrible person if I honestly just want to go back to the drugs?"

"You're going through something incredibly difficult. 9 out of-"

"I know the statistics."

"It's not wrong to want it. It's not wrong to do it, either. It's always been your choice, Reid. You just have to know there are certain things you may not get back. You will be giving things up."

Reid's voice was so quiet, Gideon had to strain to hear him. "What kinds of things?"

"Your health. Maybe your life."

Reid nodded, looking away.

"Your job."

Reid squeezed his eyes shut.

"The team. Us."

Tears pushed through and stained his cheeks, and his breath hitched in a sob.

"I don't want to hurt anyone."

Gideon hesitated. "You've already hurt us, Spencer. By hurting yourself."

Reid looked down. "I'm sorry."

"Are you going to do that? Go back to that life?"

"I don't… I don't know."

"You're not thinking straight."

"I know."

"Please wait till you're sober, before making any decisions." Reid nodded, scratching at his arm. "You'll give me a response when I see you in the morning." Reid nodded.

DAY FOUR, AGAIN.

Gideon got his response the next day, when he arrived for his shift to find Reid tucked in the corner of the bathroom, curled up in a blanket, shivering and sweating at the same time. His hair stuck to his forehead, ears, and neck, and his hands shook violently. As soon as JJ and Morgan were gone, Gideon looked at Reid, who kept his eyes down when he spoke through clenched teeth.

"I want the whole thing."

"You're sure about that."

"Yes."

"You're withdrawing pretty badly. I can give you just enough to make that go away."

Reid shoved his face against his knees, his words muffled by this, and the sobs. "I need it, I need it to just, to feel okay." He sniffled. "I want to feel good again." He hesitated. "I'm just so… numb. I want to feel good again, Gideon."

"I know, Reid. And you can, if you work through this. Once you get off the drugs, we will get you into therapy, into meetings. Will you go to a meeting today?"

"I don't need a doctor, I am a doctor."

"We'll get you the best shrink there is. He'll shrink all those problems and bothers in that head of yours."

"I don't want to go to a meeting, Gideon, I want to get high."

"I know."

"Will you let me?"

"If that's what you want."

"It's what I need."

"Is it what you want?"

Reid broke. He cried. He sobbed. He came pretty close to screaming. Gideon just watched. "I'm done. I can't do this."

"You're sure."

"Yes."

Gideon set the equipment on the floor next to Reid. "I should arrest you."

"Will you?"

"Does it make a difference to you? Because I swear, Reid, if the only thing that is keeping you from using right now is the fact that I might arrest you, then you've already lost me."

Reid couldn't handle it anymore. He shifted, knocking the drugs and the needle over and watching them roll under the sink. After trying to push himself up, he fell slightly, then slapped a hand over his mouth, bending over the toilet to be sick. Gideon angrily turned, nearly slamming into Morgan as he entered.

"I'm sorry I'm late, I had-"

"I'm leaving," Gideon barked. "Take care of him."

DAY FIVE, AGAIN.

Morgan kept him in line for the rest of the fourth day, but by the fifth day, Reid was beyond desperate again.

"Please, please, please."

"What, Reid."

"I need Gideon to come back."

"He's not due to come back till tomorrow."

"When do I get the drugs?"

"You get a dose in two hours."

Reid sat, and waited. He cried. He stared out the window. He debated jumping. And as soon as the two hours was up, Reid held an arm out, awaiting the needle.

Morgan sighed, pushing it in and waiting for Reid to sink away. He didn't. He just blinked at Morgan. "Did you do it?"

"I did."

"It didn't do anything."

"It's not supposed to get you high anymore, Reid, it's just supposed to stave off the withdrawals."

"Well it didn't work, I really need more."

"You're not getting anymore."

Reid's insides relaxed. He felt slightly calmer, he felt like maybe it wouldn't be the end of the world if he didn't get anymore right this second, but then, it flipped. And he sat back against the wall, shuddering. "Oh…"

"What's up."

"I think…" He put a hand to his head, trying to alleviate the pounding, and then pulled his hand away, watching the shaking. "I'm gonna be sick…"

"You'll be okay, kid, just lean over the toilet."

Reid did. The doorbell rang. Morgan stopped, and turned, calling out.

"Who is it?!"

"Gideon! I'm coming in!"

Morgan winced as Reid lost his (small) lunch into the toilet, and cleaned up the drug paraphernalia. He went to meet Gideon at the front, checking on Reid once more before heading out.

Reid sat back against the wall, panting, and a glint of light caught his eye. He glanced under the sink, seeing the vial and the needle, left there the day before when Gideon almost let him use. He could hear the voices in the hallway. He jumped for the drugs, assembling them quickly and pressing the needle to his arm. The voices could still be heard. He pushed the needle in. He pulled the plunger out, watched the blood draw in, then pushed it all in together. A full dose. It flooded his system as he pulled the needle out and tossed it to the ground, leaning back against the wall and panting as it bombarded his system. He sighed. He moaned.

"Mmmm." He sunk a little further where he sat. He swallowed, and his jaw lulled open. His eyes drifted shut. "Oh…"

All the pain went away.


	18. Hope

CHAPTER 18

"Dammit, Reid."

Morgan found him, stoned and alone, in the bathroom after trying, and failing, to prompt Gideon to come back, return, save their friend. Gideon just left.

"Reid…" Morgan dropped to his knees, helping the kid up. Reid moaned, eyes slipping shut. His eyes… Morgan focused on them, studying them: the way his pupils had disappeared into his eyes, the way they fluttered between open and closed, and the tears that slipped from them and cut paths down his cheeks. Morgan sighed. "This isn't fun and games anymore, is it, kid?"

Reid couldn't answer, he was somewhere far away. He had slipped away from them, again, and Morgan was scared he would never get his Boy Genius back.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

They sat around the conference room of the Denver P.D. station, discussing with hushed voices while they waited for Reid to return from the bathroom. He had been in there for 15 minutes. They knew what he was doing.

"I think it's time to consider rehab."

"You know we can't-"

"Morgan, he is going to die if we don't get him some serious help and fast. We don't know what we're doing here. We can do the best we can, but clearly, it still isn't enough." Prentiss sat back in her chair when she was done, rubbing at her temple with two fingers. "I don't know what else to say. He's still using, we can't just let him go on like this. We can't help him alone, you know that. As much as we wish we could, we just can't."

Morgan sighed, glancing over at Reid, who had just come out of the washroom and rubbed his hands together, looking content. Prentiss studied him, noticing how his hands no longer shook, how his pupils had disappeared into his big, hazel eyes… how happy he seemed.

"Hi, guys," Reid said as he sat, grinning.

They sighed.

"Hi, Reid," they spoke in unison. Reid looked around at this. Why did everyone seem so sad? So resigned? It was a beautiful day! He was feeling great, he was with people he loved… and here they were, acting sad about it.

"Everything okay?" he asked, tilting his head, searching them.

Morgan sighed again. "Yeah, Reid. Everything is fine. How're you feeling?"

He grinned again. "I'm feeling great. Let's find Carter."

They did.

"So now that we have 15 names, is there any way we can eliminate any of them?" Morgan asked Garcia. She leaned in and pointed at one.

"That one's dead. Killed two days ago in a drug battle. Shot in the face, so it was hard to identify him."

Reid leaned forward, studying the image of the broken man. "I think that's him."

"Reid, his face is gone, you have no way of-"

"The tattoo, on his shoulder. And what he's wearing. He always wore two belts like that. One to keep his pants off, one to tie off."

Morgan nodded, studying the page. "And he's dead."

Garcia nodded. "Unless he's a superhuman who could survive being shot in the face like that. No, he's definitely dead. Goes into autopsy tomorrow."

Reid sat back. "Dead?"

"Yeah, Reid. He's gone." Reid looked down. For a moment, it looked like he was laughing. Prentiss raised an eyebrow. "Reid?"

Reid lifted his head slightly, and they saw the tears staining his cheeks.

"Oh, my God…" JJ murmured under her breath. Prentiss immediately went to Reid's side, holding his shoulders as he cried.

"He's gone, Reid. He can't hurt you anymore. You're safe." Reid nodded, leaning forward and closing in on himself.

"Thank you," he managed through his tears.

Prentiss smiled softly. "You're okay, Reid. You're okay."

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

They stood around Reid's bed at the hotel, where he sat on the edge, head down.

"Please don't do this to me."

"Reid, we don't have any other choice. We've spoken with the higher-ups. We can make this work. You can keep your job if you get clean by any means necessary, Reid. We've tried everything else, and it isn't working," Morgan said, crossing his arms.

Reid scratched at his own arms, cocking his head slightly to the side. "I'm not ready," he managed to squeak, keeping his eyes down.

"You're never gonna be ready, man. But you want this, right?"

"I don't know what I want. I want to be clean, I swear I do. But I don't want to lose the feeling. The numb. The high. I don't want to lose that. I need that, to maintain… to maintain some semblance of sanity. I need it," he finished, trailing off and shutting his eyes.

"You're losing your sanity, Reid. We can see you slipping away from us. Please don't leave us."

A sob caught in Reid's throat, and he winced, squeezing his eyes shut. "I don't want to go away," he whined, "I want to stay here. I want to help with the case."

Hotch stepped forward. "Reid, you have two choices. You can fly home tomorrow and get into the treatment center we've found for you, or you can say no now, and lose this job, lose us, lose everything. You can continue to use, if that's what you decide. We won't turn you in, we've mutually agreed to that. Just know that if you do, we're gone. Your job is gone, we are gone, and we can't come back, Reid. We've tried, over and over, to help you through this, and we can't do it again." He sighed. "It's your choice."

Reid nodded once, looking down. He scratched at an arm again. "I'll go," he said, very quietly.

"Tomorrow," Prentiss confirmed. Reid nodded.

"I need help! I don't have anywhere else to go, now."

They nodded. They smiled. They were happy to see Reid make this decision.

_"Dear Mom,_

_I hope you've been well. I really miss you._

_I'm going to rehab tomorrow. I'm still struggling with this, every single day. I wish I knew how to stop on my own, but I don't. I can't. And my friends have pulled some strings and if I do this, I'll be able to keep my job. It's a good deal. Maybe, when I'm out, and I'm clean, and well again, I can come see you. I'd love to see you._

_I'm so sorry, to have let you down like this. I know this is never what you imagined your son would be like, and I'm so sorry that I've done this to you. It's going to stop. I'm going to be better. I really am. I'll have the help of the greatest care in Virginia, the way you have in Las Vegas. We'll both be fine. I promise._

_I love you so much, Mom._

_-Spencer."_


	19. Starting to Change

CHAPTER 19

Reid didn't want to do it, but he had to do it. And he promised he'd do it.

Of course, he managed to find a connection and spent the whole plane ride home high out of his mind. No one was with him. No one bothered, no one cared. So no one noticed. He spent that entire plane ride so stoned he couldn't see straight, so high his mind had turned upside down, so numb he wasn't even aware of where he was going. And the moment he stepped off the plane, he was bent over a trash bin, so sick he thought he might die.

Yet this didn't stop him from dosing again in the men's room of the airport, and as he flicked the bubbles from the syringe and brought it to his arm, a little piece of him died inside. Crouched on the ground in a stall, shooting up in the men's room. Typical.

The driver that picked him up looked at him with sympathy as he slurred his way through his greeting, then passed out in the car. Upon arrival, they had to shake him awake to get him inside. "What's he on?" asked one orderly.

"Dilaudid," responded another.

"Damn. Kid must be in a lot of pain, how much he's using."

"You're telling me."

As soon as they got him through the check-in process, throughout which he was no help, due to his impairment, he was dropped in his room, where he passed out again. And he dreamed. About Dennis. He dreamed about the kid's smile, the light that shined through his eyes whenever he was sober. He dreamed about the goofy jokes the kid made when things were bad for them, just to lighten the mood a little. And when Reid woke, he prayed that Dennis was okay.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

REHAB, DAY ONE

"Thank you. Would anyone else like to share?" The leader of the group looked around, eyes zeroing in on Reid, who threaded his fingers together, then separated them, then threaded them again, looking away. "Spencer?" Reid looked down, then away again, then shook his head. "Are you sure?"

Reid began to nod, then jumped up and hurried from the room, barely getting to the bathroom in time before he was sick. Fifteen hours sober and counting.

REHAB, DAY THREE

Reid spent the better part of the day curled in his room, wrapped up in a blanket that protected him from the icy cold that lay upon him. Sometimes, the room would suddenly become fiery hot, and he would throw the blanket to the floor and stretch out on his bed, staring at the ceiling as he panted in the heat. Then, he'd be freezing again, scrambling for the blanket.

And Reid prayed. As logical as he was, as true and faithful to science as he had ever been, something in him needed belief, a belief in the impossible, a belief in something bigger than himself because just being himself wasn't working anymore. And he prayed, with everything that he had, that he would survive this.

He wasn't sure he would.

REHAB, DAY FIVE

"Somebody get some help for this kid, he's dying over here," called an orderly when he found Reid groaning in pain as his stomach churned and cramped. He cried out as the aching and cramping in his every muscle got worse, writhing around to escape the wrath of withdrawal.

A nurse rushed in with a small disposable cup with a pill inside, and helped Reid swallow.

"What is it," he panted, waiting for it to kick in.

"Methadone. It will-"

"I know what it does. I didn't want any opioid replacements, I indicated that when I checked in."

"I understand, but-"

"But nothing, I'm not replacing one addiction with another. I'd really like to not receive that again." The nurse nodded, stepping back as Reid snapped at her. He rubbed his temples. He felt like he was losing his mind.

The way things were going now, he was never going to get his sanity back. He was going to forever be trapped in this fog, this half-assed form of living where he could only access parts of his brain at a time and couldn't get anything done. He was too busy, stuck in the withdrawals, stuck in the pain, and wishing, hoping, praying for an escape.

Later, Reid hummed softly, hugging himself and wincing occasionally as the pangs of severe pain hit him. The methadone was fading and they had injected him with a sedative to keep him calm as he lost his mind with the withdrawals. It didn't get him high, but it let him down a little bit, soothed him, relaxed him. The pain didn't seem so bad anymore.

He just was. Didn't care about much, didn't worry about much. He just was. Despite all the pain.

REHAB, DAY TEN

Reid sat at the table in the Meeting Hall, drumming his fingers against the table, head down as he listened to the stories of the other patients.

"Jed, pick someone to go next."

"Uh, Spencer. We haven't heard from you, yet. C'mon up."

He sighed, pushing himself up, wincing as his muscles ached slightly, and slowly moved to the front of the room. He wasn't sure what to do with his hands. He started with them folded on the podium, then gripping its edge. He wrung his hands together, fidgeted with his fingers, then just slid them into his pockets, wincing again. "Hi. Um. I'm Spencer. I'm an addict."

"Hi, Spencer."

"I have ten days today."

"Congratulations, Spencer."

He smiled weakly, but it faded, and he looked down again. "Uh, thank you. I'm here, because a friend introduced me to Dilaudid, and I became…" He trailed off, pausing for a moment. He thought, and then he continued. "No. No, that's not right. I'm not here because of him, I'm here because of me. The first few times, while those weren't my choice, and they were forced… I loved it from the beginning. I guess, I guess there's always been something in me that was an addict, because if that wasn't the case, I probably wouldn't be here. It wasn't enough to have me be physically addicted, those first few times, so I guess the addict in me was what kept it going. I should have been able to stop, but I didn't. As soon as it was my own choice, I kept using. And I ended up in some really bad places. I kept sinking deeper and deeper and I didn't know how to get out. I got into trouble. I almost lost my job." He thought about Gideon. "I may have lost my best friend. I guess I'll find out." He paused again. "I'm here because I'm tired of punishing myself. I'm tired of ignoring the good in me and letting the bad take over. Because I admit it's there. It definitely is, and I wasn't always ready to admit that. I'm here because I need help to find my way out of this. I'm here because I want a way out of this. And I know that even now, that I'm done with the withdrawals, that isn't even half the battle. Because if I wasn't an addict, as soon as the withdrawals were over I would have been able to go back to normal life. And I can't do it. I'm still in here, struggling every damn day because all I want is to use. And I just, I need some help to find my way back to a place where I feel good about things, and don't need to use to get there. Thank you."

The group claps for him, and when he sits down, he can't help but wear a small smile.

_"Dear Mom,_

_I miss you so much. I've been here ten days, now. They say the worst of it is over, but I think they just mean the withdrawals. I know, from research that these things stay with you a long time, even once the physical habit is kicked. I'm scared, Mom. To be perfectly frank, I'm terrified this won't be enough, and that I'll fail again. I can't fail again. I go back to the way things were… it won't be good._

_I just want you to know that I'm trying my hardest. My absolute best. I'm not used to not being perfect at something, but I'm doing the best that I can. I just hope that's enough._

_I love you, Mom. So much. Don't forget that._

_-Spencer."_


	20. In My Veins

CHAPTER 20

"Dear Spencer,

I'm so proud of you. You have no idea how proud I am of you. Congratulations, on your ten days sobriety. Of all of the brilliant things you've done, these steps you are taking are probably your greatest accomplishment. At the very least, I hope it is the one you will find the most satisfaction in, and take the most pride in.

I am doing well here. I would absolutely love a visit from you, once you're done with your time there. I do hope they're taking the best care of you. It is all you deserve.

'The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.'

I know you know who said that. You will have a fresh outlook once you have finished this incredible journey. Use your new eyes.

Much love,

Mom."

Spencer read the letter with shaking hands, unable to contain the tears running in rivulets down his cheeks. He looked up, startled, when he heard his name called.

"Spencer. You have a phone call."

He nodded, climbing off his bed and going to the phone bank, picking up the beeping phone.

"Hello?"

"Reid, it's Morgan. I put some friends on conference, I hope that's okay."

"How are you, Spencer?" came Prentiss' voice.

"My Baby Genius, tell me they are not stealing your brain," came Garcia's.

"Hello, Spencer," came Hotch's.

"Spence, I miss you!" came JJ's.

Spencer smiled. "Hi guys,"

They chattered over each other, asking him how he was, what it was like, if he was staying clean, and is the food any good?

He went to respond, but then a question puzzled him. He cleared his throat. "Is, uh… is Gideon there?"

A brief moment of silence, then came the gruff voice. "Yes, Spencer. I'm here."

Spencer smiled. He couldn't contain a brief laugh. "Hi. Gideon."

"How are you, Spencer?"

Reid wanted to tell him he was good. He wanted to tell him he was feeling better every day, because he was. But he also wanted to tell him he was dying in this place, and while he felt better physically, he found that each passing day without the drug left a deeper and darker sense of gnawing hollowness deep in his gut. He was lonely. He was dark, he was depressed. He often gazed out the windows with his bloodshot, sleepless eyes and thought about jumping.

He was often sedated, to control the wild swinging of legs and arms that could not be controlled as he awoke from the torturous nightmares that damaged his mind and soul. They damaged his views, they damaged his self-esteem. They damaged his whole person.

The sedation didn't help either, it made him feel numb and lost, like he had lost his personality, had lost his sense of self. It made him sluggish and weak, made him slow to respond and lacking in his usual sharpness. It made him empty and numb.

All he could say in response to Gideon's question, however, was, "I'm okay."

"Just okay?"

"It's hard. I'm having…" He was going to say trouble, but he didn't want them to worry. "I'm okay."

He could almost hear Gideon smile over the phone. "I'm incredibly proud of you, for what you're doing, Spencer."

Reid smiled. "Thank you."

"Really. We all are."

"Goes double for me, kid," he heard Morgan say. He knew this very well may have been true. Morgan was there, during all of it, during his worst. He was there when Reid was losing it, losing his mind, losing his will to fight. He was there when Reid lashed out in anger, when he betrayed his friends' trust by breaking promises, and continuing to use, over and over. He knew this was a big step. But he also knew he was nowhere near ready to re-enter the real world, and be able to deal with it without using. He just wasn't.

"Thanks, Morgan."

"You're welcome, kid."

When they hung up, Reid broke down crying. Stephen, his counselor, stopped as he walked by. "Spencer? Want to come with me to my office?" Reid nodded through his tears, following the man who fed him small morsels of hope every day. When they sat, Stephen looked concerned. "Want to tell me what's going on?"

"Just… a call. Some friends. My team." He hesitated. "Just struggling."

"With what?"

Reid was quiet. He was struggling with the desire to use, but more than that, was struggling with the way things never seemed to get better. He was struggling with the fear, as each day got harder and harder, that he would never be free of the hold the drug had on him. "I'm worried I'll never be better. Statistically, only one in ten of us will make it. I'm scared I'm going to be in that nine."

"What makes you think that?"

"The emptiness I feel. The pain."

"That's why you're here. So we can get to the root of that pain and determine the cause, and figure it out. I don't think you'll fail, Spencer. You are so strong. You're a fighter, I've seen that in the way you worked through withdrawal."

"They sedate me every day."

"It's to ease the process."

"I hate it. I wish I didn't need it. I feel zoned. I can't focus. I just want to sleep. I just wander through the halls, like a zombie." More hesitation. "I don't want to be a zombie anymore."

"Should we take you off the Lorazepam?"

"I don't know. I don't know if it's helping me or hurting me."

"You may experience mild withdrawal."

Reid's heart sank. He didn't feel psychologically addicted to the drug, the way he was with Dilaudid, but he knew there was potential for physical withdrawals. "How mild?"

"Very mild. You haven't been on them long. You'll be fine."

"I'd like to be taken off the Lorazepam, then."

"We'll start that effective tomorrow. It will help you sleep tonight."

It helped him sleep. And there were no dreams. Just numb, quiet, thoughtless sleep. It was the kind of sleep he really needed, after all the pain. It felt good. He could feel it feeling good, the way it took hold of him. And when he gasped awake in the morning, all he wanted was the numb to return.

"I don't think I should be taken off the Lorazepam."

"What changed your mind, Spencer?"

"I feel a little better."

"That's a potential for abuse. I don't think it's a good idea to keep you on it if you're viewing it this way."

Reid's voice cracked. "Please. I need it. To sleep."

"We'll sedate you at night. And with pills, not needles. We don't want your attachment to intravenous R.O.A. to become a problem in and of itself."

"'Needle fever'", Reid quipped.

"Exactly."

Reid was quiet. "I've done that before. Just… injecting sterile water. Just for the feeling. Searching for the vein, tying it off. That prick. Pulling out, pushing in." His voice breaks again. "I love it."

"Loved it," Stephen corrects. Reid shuts his eyes.

"Loved it."

He had to remind himself, he didn't love this anymore. Even though he knew, inside of him, he still did.


End file.
